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t?   Gt  RdSE. 
LIBRARY 


CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


presented  to  the 

LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  •  SAN  DIFGO 

by 
FRIENDS  OF  THE  LIBRARY 


MR.   JOHN  C.   ROSE 


donor 


POEMS. 


BY 

ERNEST    McGAFFEY. 


NEW  YORK:   DODD,  MEAD 
AND   COMPANY  ....  1895. 


Copyright,  1895, 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY. 


JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.  S.  A. 


TO    MRS.   G.    H.   NELSON, 

FROM     HER    AFFECTIONATE 
NEPHEW. 


CONTENTS. 

anU  ILprtcs. 


PAGE 

And  even  I    ............  1  1 

The  Crow's  Wing  ..........  13 

Brothers  and  Sisters  .........  15 

Flight  ..............  16 

At  the  Wayside  Inn   .........  18 

Vae  Victis      ............  21 

A  Dancer      ............  23 

A  Song  of  Death   ..........  25 

Tulips  ..............  27 

On  Summer  Nights    .........  29 

Lilies  ..............  31 

The  Cry  of  the  Toilers  ........  32 

'Cow-Bells      ............  35 

Jack-o'-Dreams  ...........  37 

;  The  Locust  ............  39 

Dreams    .....    '  ........  41 

Songs  Unsung  ...........  43 

3 


PAGE 

My  Mother  Earth 47 

October 51 

On  the  Hills 53 

A  Song  of  the  Dust 54 

A  California  Idyl 56 

The  Catbird's  Whistle 58 

En  Silhouette 60 

A  March  Sunset 61 

Hickory  Lilies 62 

The  Amateur  Photographer 63 

Violets 66 

An  Indian  Summer  Day 67 

Isis 68 

The  Meadow-Lark 71 

Song 73 

In  the  Heart  of  the  Hickory  Tree      ....  74 

Defiance 76 

Poeta  Nascitur,  non  Fit 78 

Threnody 80 

©SSarp  anto  SSSoof. 

The  King's  Love  and  Hate 83 

The  Message  of  the  Town 84 

"L1  Allegro" 86 

4 


PAGE 

The  Prompter 87 

Apple-Blossoms 89 

The  Wraith  of  Lochbury 90 

The  Sphinx 91 

He  Travels  the  Fastest  who  Travels  Alone   .  94 

An  Old  Daguerreotype 96 

A  Prodigal 98 

Accursed 102 

Ishmael 103 

Magdalen 105 

Re-incarnation 107 

The  Lost  Souls 108 

Sunset 109 

Lilith no 

Sonnet  to  Music  . in 

Midnight  at  Sea 112 

The  Spinning  Dervish   .     . 113 

The  Men  of  the  Shovel  and  Pick     .     .     .     .  115 

Ecce  Signum 118 

The  Bar  Sinister 119 

The  Prodigals 1 24 

Dear  Heart,  Sweet  Heart 126 

The  Christian , 128 

As  for  Me,  I  have  a  Friend 130 

In  Passing 132 

5 


aitt 

PAGE 

The  Sea 137 

Derelict 138 

An  Etching 142 

Drowned 144 

The  Mermaid's  Song 146 

False  Chords 148 

The  Seventh  Daughter 150 

White  Caps 152 

The  Flying  Dutchman 154 

Colombo 158 

Polperro 163 

Haud  a  Wee  my  Willie 166 

Off  Pelican  Point 168 

Off  Georges  Banks 171 

Adrift 173 

The  Northwest  Passage 174 

A  Bottle 175 

JHp  Chapter. 

The  Burning  of  the  Ships 179 

My  Lady  of  Lilies 184 

Kismet 187 

De  mi  Amigo 189 

6 


PAGE 

By  our  ain  Fireside  .........  192 

In  a  Missouri  Orchard  ........  194 

A  Sandal-Wood  Fan      ........  196 

I  Fear  no  Power  a  Woman  Wields  ....  198 

In  Absence      ...........  199 

Poppies  .............  203 

I  am  thy  Knight  ..........  205 

Retrospection  ...........  207 

At  the  Play      ...........  212 

If  ...............  214 

Her  Room  ............  216 

The  Gray-Eyed  Lady    ........  221 

Tantalus     ............  222 

One  Woman    ...........  223 

It  's  a  Long  Lane  that  has  no  Turning      .     .  225 


2Tn  tljc  Sunset 

The  Prairie      ...........  229 

An  Indian  Bow     ..........  232 

A  Tarahumari  Runner  ........  233 

Little  Big  Horn    ..........  235 

Arizona  .............  238 

The  Sun-Dance  of  the  Sioux  ......  239 

A  Prairie  Minuet      .........  243 

Overland     ............  244 

7 


PAGE 

Nez  Percys 245 

A  Prairie  Picture 250 

Red  Cloud 252 

Geronimo 257 

Indian  Burial 259 

A  Mountain  Trail  by  Moonlight      .     .     .     .  261 

The  Navajo 263 

A  Song  of  the  Sunset  Land    ......  266 


SONGS  AND   LYRICS. 


SONGS  AND   LYRICS. 

X 

AND    EVEN    I. 

THE  lark  lies  dead  upon  the  plain, 
The  wood-bird  sits  with  folded  wing, 

Leaps  in  my  breast  the  old  refrain, 
Still  must  I  sing,  still  must  I  sing. 

Nay  !  not  because  Parnassian  height 
Seems  nearer  now  or  less  sublime, — 

High,  high  indeed,  his  muse's  flight 
That  soars  beyond  the  lapse  of  time,  - 

But  that  my  songs,  when  I  have  passed 
The  shore-line  of  the  Stygian  Sea, 

May  be  in  some  man's  heart  at  last 
What  other  songs  have  been  to  me. 
ii  ' 


No  higher  hope  I  hold  than  this, 
That  one  may  say  when  I  am  dead, 

"He  reckons  not  of  death's  cold  kiss  ; 
His  song  shall  answer  in  his  stead." 

And  thus  a  changeless  trust  I  keep 
My  guiding  star  in  stormy  years, 

Or  when  I  wake  or  when  I  sleep, 

That  bids  me  through  all  doubts  and  fears 

To  stake  my  soul  upon  the  die, 

And  write  some  lines  that  will  not  rust,  — 
A  great  heart-hunger  not  to  lie 

Forgotten  when  my  bones  are  dust. 


12 


THE  CROW'S  WING. 

CURVING  sweep  of  a  burnished  wing 
Black  as  the  gloom  of  a  winter  night, 
Strong  in  a  sense  of  hardy  flight 
Over  the  woods  and  the  mountain  height, 
Winds  and  the  white  moon  following. 


What  though  the  lightning's  fancies  played 
Hide  and  seek  in  the  darkling  skies, 
Thou  on  the  storm's  broad  breast  didst  rise, 
Sailing  on  as  an  arrow  flies 
Loosed  at  a  foeman's  ambuscade. 


What  though  the  hail  made  fierce  attack 
Beating  down  on  thine  ebon  wings. 
Rain  that  chills  and  the  sleet  that  stings,  — 
Naught  to  thee  were  these  buffetings 
Borne  along  in  the  tempest-wrack. 


Holding  still  to  thine  airy  path 
Silent,  stern  as  the  seal  of  fate, 
Thou  hast  learned  an  to  watch  and  wait, 
Morn  break  soon  or  the  stars  rise  late, 
Come  what  may  for  the  aftermath. 


Send  my  soul  on  a  sable  wing 
Death,  when  the  darkness  falls  on  me ; 
Let  me  wander  by  land  and  sea 
Free  as  the  crow's  flight,  yea,  as  free. 
Winds  and  the  white  moon  following. 


BROTHERS   AND   SISTERS. 

BROTHERS  I  have  by  the  score, 

A  million,  yea,  and  more  ; 

Men  who  are  striving  'mid  sun  and  rain 

Resolute  comrades  on  hill  and  plain, 

Drawers  of  water  and  hewers  of  wood 

Bound  in  a  common  brotherhood, 

With  the  hearts  and  hands  to  dare  and  do 

Life's  fiery  furnace  passing  through, 

Oh  !  brothers,  I  pray  for  you. 

And  sisters  have  I,  yea,  more 

Than  sand-grains  by  the  shore  ; 

Women  who  work,  and  who  know  not  peace 

Sighing  in  vain  for  the  soul's  release  ; 

Sisters  of  trouble,  in  poverty's  van 

Toil-worn  faces  I  sadly  scan, 

They  come  and  go  and  are  lost  to  view 

And  death  shall  linger  and  fate  pursue, 

Oh  1  sisters,  I  weep  for  you. 


FLIGHT. 

A  HICKORY  tree  in  the  valley  grew  ; 
The   snows  and  sun  and  the  spring  rains 

found  it, 
And  shrill-voiced  winds  from  the  northward 

blew, 
And  the  dews  in  the  night-time  fell  around  it. 


Deep  into  the  earth  its  fibres  crept 
And  pierced  the  flint  in  the  depths  down 

under, 
Till   the   lightning   out   from    the   cloud-ways 

leapt 
And  the  hickory  fell,  and  was  split  asunder. 

And  there  by  its  side  the  shadowy  marsh 
A  crane's  nest  held  by  the  curving  river, 

Where  the  tall  grass  mingled,  coarse  and  harsh, 
With  reed-beds  broad  and  the  sedge  a-quiver. 
16 


And  the  tree  and  the  egg  and  the  stone  lay 

there 
But  shreds  and  shards  at  the  dim  earth's 

portal, 

As  common  things  that  could  never  dare 
The  higher  realm  of  the  far  immortal. 

But  an  Indian  wrenched  from  the  tree  a  shaft 
And    struck   a   flint   from    the   rock-ribbed 

ledges, 

And  a  crane's  quill  picked  from  a  tangled  raft 
Of  reeds  and  weeds  by  the  brown  marsh- 
edges. 

And  the  arrow  sped  from  his  twanging  bow 
Till  the  lone  blue  vault  of  the  sky  was  riven, 

And  that  which  was  humblest  here  below, 
Now  at  the  last  was  the  nearest  heaven. 


AT  THE  WAYSIDE    INN. 

MINE  host  of  the  wayside  inn, 

We  seldom  see  him  there  ; 
But  the  waiter,  tall  and  thin, 

With  his  puritanic  air, 
He  comes,  and  brings  us  wine, 

Then  leaves  us  there  alone,  — 
She  with  tb.e  vintage  brought  from  Rhine, 

I  with  the  juice  of  Rhone. 

Oh,  girl  with  the  golden  hair 

And  eyes  of  iris  blue, 
Has  Troy's  own  Helen  fair 

Changed  places,  then,  with  you  ? 
.No  face  of  woman  yet 

To  me  so  much  hath  been, 
And  I  with  you  all  else  forget 

Here  at  the  wayside  inn. 
18 


And  the  cuckoo  clock  on  high 

Keeps  up  its  race  with  time, 
And  still,  as  the  moments  fly 

Drones  out  with  mellow  chime. 
"  Cuckoo,"  as  the  quarter  falls 

It  sounds  in  plaintive  tone  ; 
"  Cuckoo,"  at  the  half  it  loudly  calls 

Then  leaves  us  there  alone. 


Oh,  girl  with  the  golden  hair 

And  the  red  rose  at  your  breast,  • 

You  are  fair,  mayhap  too  fair, 

But,  bah  !  you  are  like  the  rest, 
And  why  should  I  to-night 

These  vain  romances  spin, 
That  still  with  the  curling  smoke  take  flight 

Up  from  the  wayside  inn  ?       ' 


And  the  wine  in  the  glasses  glows 

As  slow  and  slow  we  sip, 
While  the  heart  of  the  red,  red  rose 

Has  kissed  at  last  her  lip, 
And  the  flame  on  the  hearth-stone  sinks 

As  the  embers  turn  to  gray, 
And  the  bead  on  the  bubbling  grape-juice  blinks 

Just  once  and  melts  away. 
19 


Oh,  girl  with  the  golden  hair, 

Know  this  before  we  part : 
I  share  and  do  not  share 

I  give,  yet  keep  my  heart ; 
For  pride  will  stand  all  test, 

And  you  no  word  shall  win 
From  the  careless  wight  who  loved  you  best 

There  at  the  wayside  inn. 


20 


VJE  VICTIS. 

I  SING  the  woe  of  the  conquered,  a  winding- 
sheet  for  the  slain, 

Oblivion's  gulf  for  those  who  fell,  who  strug 
gled  and  strove  in  vain. 

As  of  old,  mid  the  plaudits  of  thousands,  may 

the  victor  in  triumph  stand, 
While   the  blood  of  the  vanquished   trickles 

down  and  reddens  the  yielding  sand. 

For  the  living  the  martial  music,  and  the  clus 
tering  laurel  wreath ; 

Let  the  dead  rust  on  forgotten,  as  a  sword  in 
a  rusty  sheath. 

On  the  face  of  youth  and  health  and  strength 
should  the  blessing  of  sunshine  fall ; 

A  single  shadow  may  well  suffice  the  face  that 
turns  to  the  wall. 

21 


And  he  who  has  taken  a  mortal  hurt  in  the 

strenuous  battle  of  life, 
Let  him  creep  away  from  the   dust  and  din, 

from  the  arduous  toil  and  strife, 

Let  him  go  as  a  wounded  animal  goes,  alone, 

and  with  glazing  eye, 
To  the  depths  of  the  silent  fastnesses,  in  silence 

there  to  die. 


For  the  prow  of  the  ship  rides  high  and  free 

that  baffles  the  savage  gales, 
And  the  wind  and  rain  is  a  requiem  for  the 

wreck  of  the  ship  that  fails. 


22 


A    DANCER. 

IN  the  lamplight's  glare  she  stood, — 
The  dancer,  the  octoroon,  — 
On  a  space  of  polished  wood 
With  glittering  sand-grains  strewn  ; 
And  a  rapid,  rhythmic  tune 
From  the  strings  of  a  mandolin 
Leaped  up  through  the  air  in  viewless  flight 
and  passed  in  a  strident  din. 


Her  eyes  like  a  fawn's  were  dark, 
But  her  hair  was  black  as  night, 
And  a  diamond's  bluish  spark 
From  its  masses  darted  bright, 
While  around  her  figure  slight 
Clung  a  web  of  lace  she  wore, 
In   curving  lines   of  unhidden   grace   as   she 
paused  on  the  sanded  floor. 
23 


Then  the  clashing  music  sprang 
From  the  frets  of  the  mandolin, 
While  the  shadowy  arches  rang 
With  insistent  echoes  thin, 
And  there,  as  the  spiders  spin 
Dim  threads  in  a  ring  complete, 
A  labyrinthine  wheel  she  wove  with  the  touch 
of  her  flying  feet. 


To  the  right  she  swayed,  — to  the  left, 
Then  swung  in  a  circle  round, 
Fast  weaving  a  changing  weft 
To  the  changing  music's  sound, 
As  light  as  a  leaf  unbound 
From  the  grasp  of  its  parent  tree, 
That  falls  and  dips  with  the  thistledown  afloat 
on  a  windy  sea. 


And  wilder  the  music  spell 
Swept  on  in  jarring  sound, — 
Advanced  and  rose  and  fell, 
By  gathering  echoes  crowned  ; 
And  the  lights  whirled  round  and  round 
O'er  the  woman  dancing  there, 
With  her  Circe  grace  and  passionate  face  and 
a  diamond  in  her  hair. 
24 


A  SONG   OF    DEATH. 

As  a  bird  to  its  nest,  a  man  to  his  home,  a 

child  to  its  mother, 
I,  who  have  tossed  on  the  sea  of  life  as  a 

leaf  on  a  wind-swept  heath, 
Turn  from  the  hearts  of  those  I  love,  —  from 

sister,  father,  and  brother,  — 
Turn  with  a  smile  on  my  lips  and  come,  to 
meet  and  greet  thee,  Death. 


Thou  art  the  key  to  the  vast  unknown ;   with 

thee  are  the  dark  abysses 
That  stretch  between  grasses  and  stars,  and 

divide  us  from  those  we  love. 
Welcome  art  thou  to   the  broken-hearted,  — 

thine  icy  kisses 

Are  a  message  of  hope,  as  in  olden  days  was 
the  olive  branch  borne  by  the  dove. 
25 


As  the  germ  to  the  sprout,  to  the  tree  and  the 

leaf,  so  change  is  common 
And  the  dead  leaf  lives  in  the  spring-time 

grass,  and  nothing  really  dies. 
Shall  blades  of  grass  be  immortal,  and  never  a 

man  or  woman  ? 

We  are*  all  a  part  of  nature  still,  and  nature 
never  lies. 

Hail,  silence,  and  open  the  prison  doors  that 

herald  the  soul's  release  I 
Farewell  ?    'T  is  a   beautiful   word,  to   be 

uttered  with  even  breath. 
Wrap  me  and  fold  me  in  dreams  when  my  spirit 

shall  know  surcease. 

I  live  and  am  happy,  and  as  I  live  I  fear  not 
thee,  O  Death. 


26 


TULIPS. 

FILMY  as  foam  and  as  frail  as  a  blade 
Of  Autumn-tinged  grass,  so  they  came  to  her 

sight, 
Red,  red  and  yellow,  with  varying  shade 

Yellow  and  red,  with  a  blending  of  white, — 
Tulips,  whose  petal-tips  twisted  and  turned, 
Tulips,   that    reddened    and   smouldered  and 

burned, 
Flowers  whose  cups  held  the  sunlight  inurned. 

Never  a  blossom  as  piquant  as  she, 
Search  where  you  will  and  as  long  as  you 

may. 
Why  does  she  come  at  this  late  day  to  me 

To  mould  me  as  mouldeth  a  potter  his  clay  ? 
I,  who  have  recked  not  of  clouds  overcast 
I,  who  have  baffled  and  banished  the  past, 
To  be  conquered  and  tamed  by  a  woman  at 
last! 

27 


How  do  they  seem  in  their  beauty  to  her? 

As  tulips  —  or  germs  of  the  Infinite  plan  ? 
Shall  a  flower's  dumb  petal  in  wakening  stir, 

And  never  the  heart  of  a  woman  or  man  ? 
Tulips,  all  dashed  with  the  dew  and  the  rain, 
Tulips,  that  glow  with  their  passionate  stain, 
As  heart  of  my  heart  and  with  pain  as  my  pain. 


28 


ON   SUMMER   NIGHTS. 

ON  summer  nights  the  yellow  stars 

Shine  through  the  watches  held  on  high, 

Suspended  from  the  countless  spars 
Of  cloud-fleets  anchored  in  the  sky ; 

And  wafted  past  upon  the  breeze 

Slow  winding  down  from  distant  heights 

There  comes  the  roll  of  far-off  seas 
On  summer  nights. 

On  summer  nights  the  signal  stars 

Flash  o'er  a  wide,  wild  waste  of  seas, 
The  signal  lights  of  ruddy  Mars, 

Orion,  and  the  Pleiades  ; 
And  down  the  winds  a  murmur  sweeps 
Like  whir  of  wings  in  circling  flights, 
The  ebb  and  flow  of  mystic  deeps 
On  summer  nights. 
29 


On  summer  nights  the  steadfast  stars 
Swing  from  the  masts  of  shadow  ships 

That  lie  within  the  harbor  bars 

Where  the  long  sea-roll  curls  and  dips ; 

And  still  there  comes  in  divers  keys 
Down  drifting  from  those  beacon  lights 

The  spectral  wash  of  far-off  seas 
On  summer  nights. 


LILIES. 

TEACH  me  but  half  thy  purity 

And  I  will  rest  content, 
Just  half  the  spell  of  white-winged  peace 

Which,  to  thy  petals  lent, 
Makes  all  that's  pure  and  passionless 

In  one  deep  stillness  blent. 

From  liquid  depths  that  give  me  back 

The  shadows  from  below, 
I  see  thy  forms,  all  statuesque, 

Wreathed  in  the  river's  flow 
That  sends  their  still  reflection  up 

As  white  as  driven  snow. 

Ah  1  what  am  I  to  such  as  these, — 

Sad  lilies,  tall  and  fair  ; 
That  stand  as  pale  and  motionless 

Amid  the  summer  air, 
As  though  a  sculptor's  marble  flowers 

Were  but  unfolded  there? 


THE   CRY  OF  THE  TOILERS. 

FAR  to  the  clouds  ascending, 
Over  the  darkness  trending, 
Wailing  and  never  ending 

Floats  up  a  fated  cry  : 
"  Fixed  in  poverty's  niches, 
In  hovels,  dens,  and  ditches, 
Starved  in  the  midst  of  riches 

We  die,  we  die,  we  die." 

Those  who  have  mirth  and  madness 
Mock  at  the  wraith  of  sadness, 
Joy  shall  be  theirs,  and  gladness 

Skies  that  are  blue  and  fair ; 
These  shall  with  thirst  be  burning 
Prone  on  the  world's  wheel  turning 
By  the  steep  hillsides  learning 

The  lesson  of  despair. 
32 


Little  their  time  for  sleeping, 
Sowing  but  never  reaping, 
Ever  the  vigil  keeping 

Watchfully,  night  and  day  ; 
Strong  in  their  dull  persistence, 
Breasting  the  wave's  resistance 
Just  for  a  bare  existence,  — 

So  runs  their  world  away. 

Still  do  their  hearts  aspire 
Yearning  for  something  higher, 
As  from  their  souls  the  fire 

Of  hapless  craving  springs  ; 
Scourged  by  the  thongs  and  lashes 
Bleeding  from  cruel  gashes, 
Crucified  — upward  flashes 

This  cry  of  theirs  that  rings, 


High  in  the  heavens  o'er  us, 
Resonant  and  sonorous, 
Blending  its  mighty  chorus 

With  drifting  wind  and  rain  ; 
Like  to  a  vague  outreaching 
Despairing,  yet  beseeching, 
The  cry  of  a  full  heart  teaching 

Its  longing  and  its  pain. 
3  33 


Sorrow  their  lips  unsealing 
Famine  and  woe  revealing, 
Into  the  midnight  pealing 

Echoes  the  shuddering  cry  : 
"  We  whom  a  stern  fate  tosses 
Lone,  on  a  sea  of  losses, 
Christ  of  the  thorns  and  crosses 

We  die,  we  die,  we  die." 


34 


COW-BELLS. 


V 


I  MIND  me  well,  as  a  barefoot  lad 

When  the  toil  of  the  day  was  over, 
How  I  dropped  the  bars  by  the  barnyard  path 

And  walked  to  the  dewy  clover, 
While  far  away  rose  the  sound  of  bells 
Faint  as  the  murmur  of  sea-worn  shells, 

"  Tin,  tin,  tin,"  came  the  echoes  thin, 
And  then  as  they  drifted  nearer, 

"  Ting,  along,  ling,"  would  the  chorus  ring 
Through  the  distance  clear  and  clearer. 

And  by  the  ford  where  the  gray  mill  loomed 

I  drove  them  down  to  the  edges, 
And  the  great  round  moon  peeped  over  a  cloud 

As  they  stood  knee-deep  in  sedges ; 
And  the  bells  kept  time  in  a  rude  refrain 
Like  rain-drops  dashed  on  a  window-pane, 

"  Clink,  clank,  clink,"  as  they  bent  to  drink 
Where  the  spray  from  the  dam  came  foam 
ing* 

And  "  Clink,  clink,  clank,"  as  they  climbed 

the  bank 

In  the  starlit,  shadowy  gloaming. 
35 


And  on  through  the  pastures  back  we  came 

Where  the  cricket's  rasping  shrillness 
Sprang  up  from  the  roots  of  the  ribbon  grass 

And  dinned  in  the  twilight  stillness  ; 
But  the  jangling  cow-bells  drowned  his  cry 
With  discords  harsh  as  they  hurried  by, 

"  Cling,  clang,  clong,"as  they  swayed  along 
With  the  bats  and  the  night-hawks  o?er 

them, 
And  "Cling,  clang,  clang,"  how  the  music 

rang 
As  they  surged  by  the  bars  before  them. 

And  there  as  I  raised  the  rough-hewn  poles 

And  pushed  them  into  their  sockets, 
And  lazily  sat  on  the  old  rail  fence 

With  hands  thrust  deep  in  my  pockets, 
I  listened  still  for  a  straying  note, 
And  whiles  from  the  dusk  would  softly  float, 

"  Co-link,"  and  then  through  the  maze  again 
In  the  hush  of  the  summer  weather, 

"  Co-lank  "  —  't  was  all,  and  in  God's  far  hall 
The  star-choirs  sang  together. 


JACK-O'-DREAMS. 

You  see  me  on  the  crowded  street 

In  some  fair  woman's  face 
One  moment,  then  I  vanish  fleet 

And  leave  behind  no  trace  ; 
You  find  me  in  the  flush  of  youth, 

I  fill  the  niche  of  age, 
And  all  well-known  am  I  forsooth 

To  sinner,  saint,  and  sage. 

I  haunt  the  stars  in  blackest  night, 

I  come  in  noontide's  gaze, 
And  scourge  along  in  endless  flight 

The  caravan  of  days. 
Nor  cowl  nor  cloister  shuts  me  out 

In  beauty's  arms  am  I, 
And  I  am  with  your  hope  and  doubt 

Your  laughter  and  your  sigh. 

37 


The  wind's  wild  wings  shall  waft  me  down 

As  long  as  winds  do  blow  ; 
Spring's  green  is  mine,  and  Autumn's  brown 

And  Summer's  orchard  snow. 
And  wraith-like  in  its  robes  of  mist 

My  flitting  form  will  be, 
Where  cold  foam-serpents  writhe  and  twist 

In  Winter,  by  the  sea. 

Nay  :  I  will  pierce  where  spirits  stand 

Beyond  the  soul's  eclipse, 
As  swift  as  when  from  loosened  hand 

The  carrier  pigeon  slips  ; 
My  shadow  stays,  though  evermore 

Mine  other  self  it  seems  ; 
You  follow,  but  I  go  before 

For  I  am  Jack-o'-Dreams. 


THE    LOCUST. 

A  SOMBRE-HUED  locust  was  singing  to  me  — 
Seventeen  years,  seventeen  years, 

Up  on  a  branch  of  the  mulberry  tree 
(Seventeen  years  and  years). 

The  Summer  was  steeped  in  the  languor  of 
June 

And  sun-dial  shadows  were  creeping  to  noon 

As  the  locust  spun  out  his  monotonous  tune  — 
Of  seventeen,  seventeen  years. 

And  how  long  ago  did  I  hear  it  before  ? 

Seventeen  years,  seventeen  years. 
Just  the  same  echo  its  resonance  bore 

(Seventeen  years  and  years). 
Dead  ashes  of  days,  how  they  taste  on  the  lips, 
How  air-castles  topple  and  how  the  time  slips! 
Say,  friend,  did  you  hail  them,  my  long-van 
ished  ships, 

Those  seventeen,  seventeen  years  ? 

39 


Sing  on  through  the  summer,  O  locust,  with 
glee,  — 

Seventeen  years,  seventeen  years. 
The  leaf  is  yet  green  on  the  mulberry  tree 

(Seventeen  years  and  years). 
Since  last  you  were  here,  I  am  cynical  grown, 
I  've  seen  the  June  leaves  by  December  wind 

strown, 
The  world  is  Medusa,  and  turns  men  to  stone 

In  seventeen,  seventeen  years. 


40 


DREAMS. 

OVER  the  long,  rich,  billowy  grass,  up  and  down 

are  the  footsteps  flying 
Of  viewless  winds  that  pass  and  leave  no 

token  of  their  flight ; 
With  never  a  tree  to  mar  the  stretch  of  the 

prairie  around  me  lying, 
A  dark  green  sea,  whose  rolling  waves  the 
sun  has  tipped  with  light. 

The  iron-weed  sways  on  the  wind-swept  ridge, 

the  wild  rose  blooms  in  the  hollow, 
A   hawk   wheels  round    in   circling   sweep 

through  trackless  paths  on  high, 
And  over  the  grass  the  breezes  go,  and  the 

tremulous  echoes  follow 
Filling  the  crannies  of  eddying  winds  from 
earth  to  sky. 


Horizon-ward  and  far  to  the  west,  like  the 

smoke  of  a  distant  steamer, 
Mounting  slowly  up  the  skies,  on  the  steps 

of  a  hidden  stair, 
Vague,  so  vague,  as  vague  and  dim  as  the 

dream  of  an  idle  dreamer 
A    curling    cloud-wraith,  spiral    formed,  is 
rising  through  the  air. 

Sun  and  wind,  and  the  far-off  sky ;    the  sun 

that  shines  and  the  wind  that  passes  ; 
The  life  that  is,  and  beyond  the  clouds  the 

life  that  is  to  be  — 
Dreams,  all  dreams,  that  come  and  go,  as  the 

wind's  light  footprints  over  the  grasses 
What  is  my  life  but  a  drop  of  rain  that  falls 
in  a  shoreless  sea  ? 


42 


SONGS   UNSUNG. 

SWEET  the  song  of  the  thrush  at  dawning, 

When  the  grass  lies  wet  with  spangled  dew  ; 
Sweet  the  sound  of  the  brook's  low  whisper 

Mid  reeds  and  rushes  wandering  through  ; 
Clear  and  pure  is  the  west  wind's  murmur 

That  croons  in  the  branches  all  day  long ; 
But  the  songs  unsung  are  the  sweetest  music 

And  the  dreams  that  die  are  the  soul  of  song. 

The  fairest  hope  is  the  one  which  faded, 

The  brightest  leaf  is  the  leaf  that  fell ; 
The  song  that  leaped  from  the  lips  of  sirens 

Dies  away  in  an  old  sea-shell. 
Far  to  the  heights  of  viewless  fancy 

The  soul's  swift  flight  like  a  swallow  goes, 
For  the  note  unheard  is  the  bird's  best  carol 

And  the  bud  unblown  is  the  reddest  rose. 
43 


Deepest  thoughts  are  the  ones  unspoken, 

That  only  the  heart  sense,  listening,  hears  ; 
Most  great  joys  bring  a  touch  of  silence 

Greatest  grief  is  in  unshed  tears. 
What  we  hear  is  the  fleeting  echo. 

A  song  dies  out,  but  a  dream  lives  on ; 
The  rose-red  tints  of  the  rarest  morning 

Are  lingering  yet  in  a  distant  dawn. 

Somewhere,  dim  in  the  days  to  follow 

And  far  away  in  the  life  to  be, 
Passing  sweet,  is  a  song  of  gladness, — 

The  spirit-chant  of  the  soul  set  free. 
Chords  untouched  are  the  ones  we  wait  for  — 

That  never  rise  from  the  harp  unstrung : 
We  turn  our  steps  to  the  years  beyond  us, 

And  listen  still  for  the  songs  unsung. 


44 


OUTDOORS. 


MY   MOTHER   EARTH. 

I. 

INTO  the  silence  of  thy  temples  green 
To  thy  dear  arms,  O  mother  earth  I  come 
When  sore  distressed  from  life's  perplexing  ills, 
And  steep  my  soul  in  thy  all-healing  strength. 
As  wounded  denizens  of  wood  and  field 
Seek  thy  most  quiet  and  secluded  depths, 
So  I,  when  racked  by  lingering  heart-aches  go 
Into  those  wide  and  leafy  halls  of  thine 
And  give  myself  to  solitude  and  thee. 

I  am  a  worshipper  at  thy  fair  shrines 

0  mother  mine  ;  in  Nature's  ritual 
Thy  forms  are  to  me  as  an  open  book. 

1  read  thy  future,  present,  and  thy  past 
By  many  a  curious  and  half-hidden  sign 

And  trace  thy  wanderings  throughout  the  years 
With  knowledge  quaffed  at  thy  perennial  founts. 
And  most  I  love  the  dim  autumnal  woods  ; 
Dear  friends,  tho'  silent,  the  companion  trees, 
That  whisper  as  I  pass,  and  scatter  down 
Leaf  benedictions  on  my  leaf-strewn  path,  — 
Old  oaks,  colossal,  that  like  sowers  stand 
47 


Amid  the  acorns  scattered  on  the  ground  ; 
Maples,  whose  garments  of  sun-tinted  flame 
Seem  gorgeous  banners  in  October's  van  ; 
And    pines,   like    fingers    that    point    up   to 

heaven, 
That  distant  land  beyond  the  purple  clouds. 

I  know  the  windings  of  down-flowing  streams 
The  mossy  logs  that  stretch  from  bank  to  bank 
And  shallows  carpeted  with  pebbles  bright, 
Where  bubbles  in  the  sunlight  flash  and  gleam  ; 
I  know  the  texture  of  the  gray  squirrel's  nest 
The  drumming  of  the  partridge,  and  the  cry 
That  comes  when  darting  o'er  the  ripples  past 
The  lone  kingfisher  speeds  his  sudden  flight. 

Trust  me  to  know  the  secrets  of  thy  house, 
Dear  mother  earth  I  in  thy  deep  niches  placed 
The  primrose  waves,  and  slender  violets 
Smile  dewily  to  greet  the  south  wind's  kiss. 
Am  I  not  known  to  all  thy  family  ? 
And  may  I  not  in  thy  most  inner  dells 
Find  the  quick  welcome  of  thy  sympathy  ? 
My  mother  earth,  mine  ancient  mother  earth, 
Dear  is  to  me  thy  wintry  garb  of  gray 
Dear  the  green  splendor  of  thy  April  crown, 
Sweet  the  soft  whispers  of  thy  summer  breeze 
And  doubly  dear  thy  rich  October  dreams. 


II. 

The   sunshine   on   the   tree-trunks   comes  to 

weave 

Strange  draperies  of  rare  and  antique  lace 
In  web-like  lines   slow  filtered   through   the 

leaves ; 
Cloud-land  peeps  down  from  blue,  serenest 

skies, 
The  earth's  heart  beats  from  slow  pulsating 

breast, 

And  freshest  greenwood  odors  fill  the  air 
With  incense  from  a  hidden  censer  swung. 

There  's  not  a  vein  upon  the  tiniest  leaf 
Nor  cobweb  silvered  by  the  glistening  dews 
Nor  bird-wing  brushing   through    the  forest 

aisles, 

But  what  I  see  and  feel  its  influence. 
Why,  all  the  paintings  that  were  ever  praised 
And  all  the  music  struck  from  vibrant  strings 
Are  but  a  faint  reflection  of  the  woods, 
The  mimicry  of  art  at  Nature's  feet. 

In  the  deep  silence  of  autumnal  shades 
Old  sorrows  die,  new  memories  spring  up, 
Hope,  like  a  torch,  illuminates  the  road, 
And  all  our  former  burdens  fall  away. 
4  49 


Vistas  and  valleys  of  rich-colored  woods 
Wave  high  above  the  sylvan  thickets  dense  ; 
And  there,  when  straying  footsteps  lightly  fall 
Shy  wood-birds  flit,  across  the  space  between, 
And  timid  rabbits  lift  expectant  ears. 


O  mother  earth,  my  constant  love  for  thee, 
Born  of  the  very  earliest  of  my  thoughts, 
Holds  in  its  scope  no  taint  of  worldly  things. 
Thy   changing   moods   are   but    the   different 

lights 

Of  constancy  that  lives  forevermore  ; 
For  all  things  else  are  frail  as  ropes  of  sand 
Beside  the  truth  and  beauty  of  thy  face. 


0  mother  earth,   thy  leaves  and    trees  and 

streams 

The  large  content  that  fills  thy  sleeping  woods 
Thy  calm  repose,  and  heart-consoling  balm 
Are  more  than  all  religions  are  to  me  ; 
And  almost  half  a  Druid  now  am  I 
As  in  thy  arms,  on  mossy  couch  outstretched, 
Forsaking  trouble  to  the  wayward  winds, 

1  give  my  soul  to  spirit  hands  unseen 

And  drift    away   to    dreamland   through    thy 
gates. 

5° 


OCTOBER. 

A  MAZE  of  leaves  in  a  rich  mosaic, 

Brown  and  yellow  and  flaming  red, 
Where  the  winds  go  by  in  the  depths  archaic 

And  bright  through  the  branches  overhead 
Like  a  fair  white  hand  at  a  window  shutter 

The  sunlight  under  the  leaf-shades  peeps, 
Now  here,  now  there,  with  its  changing  flutter, 

While  below  the  old  earth  sleeps  and  sleeps. 


A  fringe  of  gray  and  a  sweep  of  yellow 

Crimson  streaks  and  a  belt  of  brown, 
Mingled  in  with  the  sunshine  mellow 

And  sun-tinged  leaves  soft  floating  down  ; 
White  the  gleam  of  the  shining  pebbles 

And  green  the  moss  on  the  banks  beside, 
As  down  the  shallows  the  buoyant  bubbles 

Into  the  cool  wood  shadows  glide. 


Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  woods  lies  glowing 

The  gathered  life  of  a  thousand  noons, 
And  echoes  faint  through  the  trees  are  blowing 

As  mystic  jEolus  plays  his  tunes, 
And  the  passing  step  of  the  wind  god  rouses 

The  dreaming  leaves  as  he  hurries  by, 
While  the  sunshine   droops  and  the  still  air 
drowses 

Under  the  purpling  autumn  sky. 

Fleecy  clouds  by  the  wind  swept  over, 

And  a  vague,  faint  scent  all  sharp  and  sweet, 
Like  the  mingled  smell  of  thyme  and  clover 

Bruised  by  the  summer's  flying  feet ; 
Ashes,  fires,  and  dying  embers, 

A  waste  of  gold  and  a  vault  of  flame, 
And  the  frail  gray  ghosts  of  the  lost  Septembers 

Vanishing,  fading,  past  reclaim. 


ON   THE   HILLS 

THE  tangled  grass  is  at  her  feet 

The  blue  sky  distant  stands, 
And  shadows  on  its  marge  repeat 

The  spell  of  weaving  hands. 

Wide  vaults  of  freest  space  beyond 

To  her  clear  eyes  are  shown, 
And  where  the  breeze  has  waved  its  wand 

Light  thistle-downs  up-blown. 

A  hawk  in  widening  circle  sails 

Above  the  far-off  trees, 
And  motionless  amid  the  swales 

The  cattle  stand  at  ease. 

She  marks  the  yellow  stubbles  shorn 

As  on  her  way  she  takes  ; 
And  shore-lines  of  September  corn 

On  which  the  sunlight  breaks. 

The  day  her  forehead  kisses  fair 
The  wind  her  long  locks  thrills  ; 

Diana  of  the  ruddy  hair 
Tall-striding  o'er  the  hills. 
53 


A   SONG   OF    THE    DUST. 


A  SONG  of  the  good  gray  dust 

That  lay  in  the  winding  road, 
Till  caught  by  a  sudden  gust 

It  sprang  from  its  dry  abode, 
And  over  the  hills  was  sowed 

On  the  leaves  and  ribbon-grass, 
On  the  gilded  wheat,  and  the  shady  sheet 

Of  the  swamp-pool,  smooth  as  glass. 

A  song  of  the  good  gray  dust 

That  falls  on  flower  and  thorn, 
That  powders  the  sumach's  rust 

And  whitens  the  bladed  corn  ; 
That  drops  in  the  ways  forlorn 

Or  rests  on  the  blossoms  white, 
As  a  wayward  touch  that  has  taught  thus  much 

Of  the  wind's  aeolian  flight. 
54 


A  song  of  the  good  gray  dust 

That  tinges  the  wayside  leaf, 
That  hangs  in  a  tawny  crust 

On  the  farmer's  home-bound  sheaf, 
That  swings  for  a  moment  brief 

On  the  barley's  bearded  sheen, 
Till  the  creaking  peals  of  the  wagon-wheels 

Shall  scatter  it  down  between. 

A  song  of  the  good  gray  dust 

Ground  out  from  the  trampled  clod, 
And  into  the  highway  thrust 

Where  the  lone  wayfarers  plod  ; 
Yet  still,  by  the  grace  of  God, 

Shall  it  feel  the  cooling  rain 
And  shall  know  the  bliss  of  the  wind's  light 
kiss 

That  stoops  to  the  country  lane. 


55 


A   CALIFORNIA    IDYL. 

A  ROAD-RUNNER  dodged  in  the  chaparral 
As  a  coin  will  slip  from  the  hand  of  a  wizard 

A  black  wasp  droned  by  his  sun-baked  cell, 
While  flat  on  a  stone  lay  a  Nile-green  lizard, 

And  a  wolf  in  the  rift  of  a  sycamore 

Sat  gray  as  a  monk  at  the  mission  door. 

A  sage-hen  scratched  'mong  the  cactus  spike 
And  high  in   the   sky  was  the  noon   sun's 
glamour, 

While  steady  as  ever  rose  anvil-strike 
Came  the  rat-tat-tat  of  a  yellow-hammer, 

And  a  shy  quail  lowered  his  crested  head 

To  the  dust-lined  sweep  of  a  dry  creek's  bed. 

And  out  of  the  earth  a  tarantula  crept 

On  his  hairy  legs  to  the  road's  white  level, 

With  eyes  where  a  demon's  malice  slept 
And  the  general  air  of  an  unchained  devil, 

While  a  rattlesnake  by  the  dusty  trail 

Lay  coiled  in  a  mat  of  mottled  scale. 
56 


Then  the  gray  wolf  sprang  on  the  sage-hen 

there, 
And   the   lizard  snapped  at  the  wasp  and 

caught  him, 
While  the  spider  fled  to  his  sheltering  lair 

As  though  a  shadowy  foeman  sought  him, 
And  the  road-runner  slipped  from  the  wayside 

brake 
And  struck  his  beak  through  the  rattlesnake. 


57 


THE   CATBIRD'S   WHISTLE. 

AN  old  bridge  stood  with  dust  thick  strewn, 
Where  through  a  crooked  country  lane 
A  brook  flowed  down,  and  out  again 
Slow  gurgling  past  with  quiet  croon  ; 
While  sunshine  kissed  the  cool  gray  stones 
And  chequered  every  leaf  and  spray, 
And  shallows  sang,  in  treble  tones, 
Where  pebbles  in  mosaic  lay. 


And  softly,  from  the  deepest  shade, 
A  catbird's  whistle  low  and  clear 
Crept  out  as  though  the  sound  was  made 
For  only  Nature's  listening  ear  ; 
Like  dripping  water  falling  slow 
Round  mossy  rocks  in  music  rare, 
So,  mellowed  by  the  summer  glow 
The  catbird's  whistle  echoed  there. 
58 


Far  up  along  the  short  green  sward 
The  white  sheep  nibbled  at  the  grass, 
And  lightly,  as  the  winds  did  pass 
Would  come  the  catbird's  minor  chord, 
A  call  that  made  all  others  mute, 
Soft  thrilling  thro'  the  drowsy  air  ; 
As  some  lost  note  from  Orpheus'  lute 
So  came  the  catbird's  whistle  there. 


59 


EN    SILHOUETTE. 

THE  blot  on  the  spider's  murky  web, 
The  sombre  shade  where  the  ripples  ebb, 

And  the  darkness  through  the  trees, 
But  never  a  shadow  that  falls  so  far 
As  when  o'er  the  ruddy  western  bar 
The  sunset  sails  by  the  first  gray  star 
Into  the  twilight  seas. 

The  tawny  leaves  that  are  floating  down 
The  trailing  vines  that  are  crisp  and  brown 

As  grass  on  the  darkling  leas  ; 
A  lone  harp  strung  in  the  swarthy  reeds 
That  sounds  its  chords  as  the  north  wind  leads 
Where  the  dusky  water  slow  recedes 
Into  the  twilight  seas. 

The  hills  in  the  distance,  black  as  jet, 
A  burned-out  sun  that  is  sinking  yet, 

The  sigh  of  a  restless  breeze  — 
And  who  shall  mourn  for  the  days  now  sped, 
The  after-glow  of  a  summer  dead, 
Long  since  with  the  far-down  shadows  fled, 
Into  the  twilight  seas  ? 
60 


A   MARCH   SUNSET. 

FAINT  clouds  that  form  a  snowy  ledge, 
And  through  the  space  that  twilight  fills 

The  gray  half-moon  with  battered  edge 
Sailing  athwart  the  sunken  hills. 

And  in  the  west  a  ragged  glint 
Of  sunset  splendor  sends  its  flash 

Where  night  and  day,  like  steel  to  flint, 
All  suddenly  together  clash. 

And  down  the  chill  wind's  rustling  flight 
From  out  a  waste  of  desert  sky 

Sinks,  bubbling  into  vasty  night, 
A  wandering  curlew's  cry. 


61 


HICKORY    LILIES. 

Lo  1  where  the  gray  of  early  March 
Lies  frost-like  on  the  grasses  green, 

And  by  the  roadway  many  an  arch 
Of  tangled  branch  and  vine  is  seen, 

Weird  flowers  upon  old  Winter's  tomb 

The  waxen  hickory  lilies  bloom. 

Soft,  sensuous  petals  pale  as  death 
With  drooping  edges  half  uncurled 

Unwavering  in  the  wind's  cool  breath 
That  drifts  across  the  upper  world  ; 

Strange  forest-buds  that  gleam  o'erhead 

Their  creamy  pallor  splotched  with  red. 

The  mist  from  out  the  marsh  below 
Spreads  filmy  wings  and  glides  away  ; 

Burns  in  the  east  a  ruddier  glow, 
While  high  above  the  hillside  clay 

All  wet  with  dew,  the  dawn's  perfume 

The  waxen  hickory  lilies  bloom. 
62 


THE   AMATEUR   PHOTOGRAPHER. 

THERE  was  a  wandering  scientist  went  by, 
And  gleaned  odd  bits  of  Nature  with  his 

lens,  — 

Far  woods  dark  outlined  on  an  April  sky 
And  stately  cat-tails  by  the  reedy  fens  ; 
And  streams  that  trickled  through  the  nar 
row  glens 
That  in  the  northern  wildernesses  lie. 

Here  lay  a  stretch  of  sleeping  water,  there 

The  sunset's  rose,  its  petals  curling  down  ; 
And  sometimes  rock-ribbed  cliffs  rose  gaunt 

and  bare, 
With    massive    broken    pillars   rough    and 

brown 

Where  the  dim  twilight  in  her  nun-like  gown 
Came  stealing  in  upon  the  drowsy  air. 

And  these  were  all  dream-glances,  till  the  sun 

Flashed  in  upon  his  camera,  and  set 
A  vision  of  a  vision,  from  a  net 

63 


Of  sunlit  strands  all  in  an  instant  spun, 
And  thus  at  length  the  subtle  toil  was  done  : 
Frail  frost-work,  mocking  Nature,  black  as  jet. 

But   oh  !  when   through  their  transformation 

came 
These  sombre  plates,  how  wonderful  were 

wrought 

Deep  pools  that  darkened  in  a  woodland  frame, 
And   rippling  currents   that   the   light    had 

caught, 

With  leaf  flotillas  on  their  windings  brought 
Crisp-curled  mementos  of  the  sunlight's  flame. 

And  glimpses  of  the  stars  and  gnarly  trees  ; 
The  moon's  slow  splendor  and  the  hopeful 
grass  ; 

And  winy  tints  of  August  where  the  lees 
Of  summer  sank,  like  bubbles  in  a  glass, 
And  clouds  high  castled  in  a  snowy  mass 

Over  a  voiceless  waste  of  azure  seas. 


The  color  was  not  there,  for  those  who  sought 
The  color  of  the  senses  ;  but  the  wise, 

By  keen  imagination  erstwhile  taught 
Saw  all  the  wealth  of  Nature's  myriad  dyes, 
64 


And  gazing  still,  with  introspective  eyes, 
Found  tints  that  those  not  dreamers  held  for 
naught. 

The  music  was  not  there,  —  the  first  faint  notes 
That  morning  brings  when  dawn-announcing 
birds 

Pipe  warily  from  half-unwilling  throats  ; 
Nor  yet  was  there  the  lowing  of  the  herds  ; 
Nor  came  across  the  water  spoken  words 

From  the  still  figures  in  the  dusky  boats. 

And  yet  'twas  all  so  vivid,  fresh,  and  strong, 
The  feeling  of  the  music,  that  it  seemed 

To  move  with  you  as  move  the  winds  along, 
To  ripple  up  wherever  water  gleamed, 
And   soothed  you  with   its  fancies  as  you 
dreamed 

Until  the  very  silence  seemed  a  song, 

And  all  the  shores  of  summer's  sunlit  deeps 
Seemed  etched  against  the  blue-horizoned 

days, 

And  broad  reflections  of  the  cloudy  steeps 
Swept  idly  down  across  the  meadow  ways  : 
For  this  was  Nature,  seen  as  through  a  haze 
As   when   one  dreams  of  pictures  while   he 

sleeps. 
5  65 


VIOLETS. 

THE  fields  are  wrapped  in  mantles  white 

Of  glittering,  drifted  snow, 
The  earth's  quick  summer  pulse  is  gone 

Yet,  beating  dim  and  slow, 
Her  muffled  throbs  come  welling  up 

From  distant  depths  below. 

It  cannot  be  the  days  are  dead 
Though  frozen  are  the  streams  ; 

For  in  the  sun's  dull  winter  light 
A  promised  summer  gleams, 

And  what  are  winter's  wraiths  at  last 
But  ghosts  of  summer  dreams  ? 

Dream  on,  dream  on,  dear  mother  earth 

Till  April's  fire  shall  glow  I 
Still  in  my  heart  thy  spring-tide  swells 

In  endless  ebb  and  flow  ; 
I  see  as  with  prophetic  eyes 

The  violets  in  the  snow. 
66 


AN    INDIAN    SUMMER   DAY. 

I  SAW  the  East's  pale  cheek  blush  rosy  red 
When  from  his  royal  palace  in  the  sky, 
The  sun-god,  clothed  in  crimson  splendor,  came 
And  lit  the  torch  of  day  with  sudden  flame, 
While  morning  on  white  wings  flew  swiftly  by 
Bringing  a  message  that  the  night  was  dead. 

High  noon,  and  not  a  murmur  in  the  streams ; 
And  silence  fills  the  hazy  autumn  air ; 
Sun-painted  leaves  drift  slowly  to  the  ground 
Amid  a  quiet,  soft  and  yet  profound 
And  lie  in  russet  windrows  scattered  there,  — 
All  Nature  in  a  misty  slumber  dreams. 

And  then  upon  the  close  of  dying  day 
Softly  and  silently  as  falling  snow, 
The  twilight  comes  in  dusky  folds  and  rings 
And  over  all  a  darkling  shadow  flings  ; 
High  overhead  a  star  begins  to  glow 
And  cow-bells  tinkle  faintly,  far  away. 

67    " 


ISIS. 

I  AM  whatever  is  ;  for  day  by  day 
I  sparkle  in  each  flower's  richest  hue, 
And  with  a  lavish  hand  I  scatter  dew 

When  twilight  comes  in  mantle  dim  and  gray. 

My  spirit  shines  in  every  faithful  star  ; 

My  voice  is  heard  in  all  the  winds  that  pass  ; 

My  name  is  written  on  each  blade  of  grass 
And  in  all  climes  my  leafy  castles  are. 

Earth,  sea,  and  sky,  and  what  are  they  but  me  ? 
Each  cloud-capped  mountain  or  each  grain 

of  sand  ? 

I  paint  the  shells  on  an  untrodden  strand 
Where  whispers  low  the  long-sought  Northern 
sea. 

I  am  whatever  has  been  ;  in  the  dust 
Of  shattered  empires  and  of  levelled  thrones 
My  presence   stands,  —  ay,    even  mid   the 

bones 

Of  coffined  kings,  and  in  their  armor  rust. 
68 


Where  the  unnumbered  dead  are,  there  am  I. 

Where    ivy   creeps    along   the    churchyard 
mould  ; 

I  gleam  in  the  pale  moonlight  shining  cold 
On  ghostly  stones  where  tears  are  never  dry. 

I  am  the  voice  of  centuries  ;  my  hand 

Holds  life  and  death,  all  mystery,  all  fate  ; 
My  secrets  told  to  only  those  who  wait 

My  domain  infinite  o'er  sea  and  land. 

I  am  whatever  shall  be  ;  though  the  night 
Be  changed  to  day,  though  stars  their  courses 

fail, 
My  giant  forces  like  great  vessels  sail 

Unharmed,  impregnable,  in  conscious  might. 

In  the  long  years  that  shall  hereafter  come 
I  will  be  found  by  forest  field  and  stream 
Still  reigning  o'er  the  universe  supreme, 

Forever  speaking,  yet  forever  dumb. 

All  darkly,  darkly,  in  the  gloom  I  hide 

And  oh  I  so  brightly  in  the  sunbeams  shine, 
All  changes  and  all  great  emotions  mine 

And  in  my  strength  and  beauty  calmly  bide. 
69 


The  veil  that  hides  my  face  has  ever  cast 
A  dazzling  shadow  on  the  path  of  years, 
The  hope  and  dread  with  mingled  joy  and 
tears 

Of  those  who  solve  my  mystery  at  last. 

Peace,  restless  heart :  't  is  not  for  mortal  breath 
To  breathe  the  ether  of  the  inner  skies, 
And  no  man's  hand  can  lift  the  veil  that  lies 

Between  the  tragedies  of  life  and  death. 


70 


THE    MEADOW-LARK. 

A  SEA  of  grass  on  either  side 

The  prairie  stretches  far  and  wide, 

Its  undulating  line  of  blades 

Reflects  the  noontide  lights  and  shades, 

And  brings  before  me  one  by  one 

The  pictures  wrought  by  wind  and  sun. 

And  silence  reigns,  save  for  the  breeze 
And  muffled  hum  of  droning  bees, 
Till  in  the  summer  hush  I  hear 
A  prairie  signal  sweet  and  clear, 
In  mournful,  piercing  notes  that  mark 
The  whistle  of  the  meadow-lark. 

Like  one  wild  cry  for  loved  and  lost 
From  some  lone  spirit  tempest-tossed, 
It  wails  across  the  waving  grass, 
And,  blending  with  the  winds  that  pass, 
It  scatters  echoes  at  my  feet 
So  full  of  pain,  so  deadly  sweet. 


Oh  1  heart  of  hearts,  could  my  unrest 
Find  such  a  song  within  my  breast, 
My  passionate  and  yearning  cry 
Would  echo  on  from  sea  to  sky, 
Along  the  path  of  future  years, 
And  touch  the  listening  world  to  tears. 


72 


SONG. 

THE  deft  Musician's  fingers 

Lo  !  they  lie  crossed  and  numb, 

And  the  soul  of  the  violin  is  dead 
And  the  magic  strings  are  dumb. 

Closed  is  the  old  piano 

And  chordless  its  amber  keys, 

As  the  vanished  tidal  murmurs 
Of  prehistoric  seas. 

The  singer's  voice  is  silent 

That  once  was  sweet  and  strong, 

They  faded  out  like  a  wild-bird's  note, 
The  singer  and  his  song. 

The  maestro's  touch  dies  with  him  ; 

'T  is  gone  for  good  or  ill  ; 
And  the  singer's  lips  no  echoes  leave 

To  linger  with  us  still. 

And  only  the  runes  of  Nature 

Abide-  with  us  for  long, 
And  only  the  wind  and  ripples 

Sing  the  eternal  song. 

73 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE   HICKORY 
TREE. 

THERE  is  never  a  blossom  of  Spring  alive 

There  is  never  a  bud,  he  said  ; 
The  cruel  snows  through  the  branches  drive 

And  the  leaves  and  grass  are  dead  ; 
But  the  pulse  of  the  world  beat  on  below 

In  spite  of  the  North  wind's  dree, 
And  a  bead  of  sap  lay  all  aglow 

In  the  heart  of  the  hickory  tree. 


There  is  never  a  rose  to  bloom,  he  cried, 

Nor  the  ghost  of  a  lily  tall, 
Nor  a  morning-glory  streaked  and  pied 

To  smile  from  the  garden  wall  ; 
But  a  seed  that  slept  in  the  frosty  earth 

Held  colors  all  fair  to  see, 
And  the  bead  of  sap  bubbled  up  with  mirth 

In  the  heart  of  the  hickory  tree. 
74 


There  is  never  a  stalk  of  green,  I  wis, 

Again  to  himself  he  said, 
No  primrose  pale  for  the  winds  to  kiss  — 

He  sighed,  and  he  shook  his  head  ; 
Yet  the  snows  were  only  the  late-month  rains, 

And  March  came  following  free, 
And  the  sap  oozed  down  through  the  hidden 
veins 

In  the  heart  of  the  hickory  tree. 

There  is  never  a  bird  in  the  thickets  now, 

Nor  a  ripple  upon  the  creek, 
Nor  a  leaf,  he  said,  on  the  apple-bough 

However  I  wait  or  seek  ; 
But  a  violet  under  the  frozen  clay 

Dreamed  on  of  the  days  to  be, 
And  a  bud  was  born  that  very  morn 

In  the  heart  of  the  hickory  tree. 


75 


DEFIANCE. 

I  QUESTION  whether  't  is  worth  the  trouble 

The  toil  and  travail,  the  sin  and  pain  ; 
For  who  that  blows  but  a  painted  bubble 

Shall  grasp  it  to  him  and  call  it  gain  ? 
And  the  life  you  live,  be  it  high  or  humble, 

Is  quickly  under  the  grasses  hid 
As  into  a  narrow  niche  you  tumble, 

And  the  clods  fall  thick  on  your  coffin-lid. 

The  light  of  love  and  the  spark  of  passion 

Shall  flame  on  the  lips  and  die  away, 
The  lips  once  red  that  are  now  turned  ashen 

And  sunk  so  soon  into  yesterday  ; 
I  lift  my  voice  in  a  measured  scorning 

Against  the  Gods  that  they  raise  on  high, 
And   dawn   bring   dusk,  and  the  night  bring 
morning 

I  care  not  whether  I  live  or  die. 
76 


I  knew  the  touch  of  a  child's  soft  finger 

But  lost  its  clasp  when  I  loved  her  best 
I  marked  in  June  where  the  young  birds  linger 

But  the  snow  soon  covered  an  empty  nest ; 
And  I  tell  you  spite  of  your  strong  endeavor 

The  vision  melts  and  the  fabric  fails, 
While  all  that  we  are  is  passing  ever 

Like  dead  leaves  whirled   in   the    Autumn 
gales. 

I  turn  my  face  to  the  glass  of  Nature 

And  dip  my  feet  in  her  streams  again, 
And  verse  myself  in  her  nomenclature 

Reading  her  heart  as  the  hearts  of  men  ; 
And  I  know  she  leads  where  the  Gods  must 
follow 

The  seas  survive  though  the  creeds  will  pass, 
And  the  words  of  man  seem  poor  and  hollow 

To  a  grain  of  sand  or  a  blade  of  grass. 

A  few  score  years,  and  the  race  is  ended 

And  we  from  the  world  are  outward  thrust, 
And  each  with  his  mother-earth  is  blended 

Ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  to  dust, 
Save  here  and  there  where  the  high  soul  sunders 

A  dread  command  while  the  rest  stand  dumb, 
And  daring  the  strength  of  Jove's  own  thunders 

Steals  fire  from  heaven  for  those  to  come. 
77 


y 

POETA   NASC1TUR,    NON    FIT. 

AND  dost  thou  think  to  tempt  the  muse 
By  such  vain  arts  as  lovers  use  ? 

And  wilt  thou  bring  her  learned  thought 
In  cunning  form  of  rhythm  wrought? 

And  wilt  thou  mould  in  rigid  rules 
Cold  fables  from  the  classic  schools  ? 

Do  all  of  this,  and  then  how  long 
Will  sound  the  echo  of  thy  song? 

No  longer  than  shall  tremble  in 
A  cracked  and  shattered  violin 

Some  chord-wave  loosened  by  the  bow 
That  fades  in  briefest  tremolo. 

Why  1  teach  the  lark  to  sing  by  note, 
And  Pan  to  play  his  reeds  by  rote, 

But  never  hope  Parnassian  height 
By  Art's  mere  imitative  flight. 
78 


Nay  !  dive  thou  deep  in  Nature's  heart, 
And  tear  her  leaves  and  grass  apart ; 

Wander  thou  forth  in  sun  and  rain 
To  tread  the  paths  of  joy  and  pain  ; 

Live,  toil,  and  strive,  and  keenly  scan 
The  mystery  of  thy  fellow-man  ; 

And,  most  of  all,  know  thou  the  spell 
Of  Love's  high  heaven  and  dungeoned  hell,- 

And  then,  if  on  thy  natal  morn 
A  singer's  soul  was  in  thee  born, 

Perchance  the  anguish  may  be  thine 
To  touch  the  lips  of  song  divine. 


79 


THRENODY. 

THE  roving  hawk  will  find  his  mate 

And  stars  companions  be, 
But  I,  —  I  only  stand  and  wait,  — 

There  is  no  mate  for  me. 

The  stranger  rivers  meeting  blend 

And  journey  to  the  sea  ; 
I  have,  mayhap,  a  single  friend 

But  none  who  watch  for  me. 

Nor  woman's  kiss  hath  bound  me  fast 
Nor  creed  hath  bent  my  knee ; 

The  fields,  and  blue  skies  overcast,  — 
These  are  enough  for  me. 

Alone,  unsolved,  I  bide  my  time 

Till  death  shall  set  me  free, 
A  man  whose  lips  were  steeped  in  rhyme,- 

Oh,  dreamers,  pray  for  me  ! 
80 


WARP  AND  WOOF. 


THE   KING'S    LOVE   AND    HATE. 

"On!  King,"  a  courtier  cried, 

As  low  obeisance  made  he, 

"  Whom  hatest  thou  the  most  ?" 

The  King  replied, 

"  Those  who  already  have  betrayed  me. 

"This  question  then  I  bring, 

Whom  lov'st  thou  most,  I  pray  thee  ?  " 

"  With  my  best  love  I  love  " 

So  said  the  King  — 

"  Those  who  hereafter  will  betray  me." 


THE   MESSAGE  OF  THE  TOWN. 

LOOK  up  to  the  stony  arches 

Where  art  and  mammon  meet, 

There  's  a  sound  where  Traffic  marches 

A  call  in  the  City  street, 

For  a  voice  is  ever  ringing 
"  Gird  up  your  loins  and  flee 
I  will  harden  your  heart  or  break  it 
If  you  will  abide  with  me." 


Go  forth  with  a  noble  yearning, 

Give  heed  to  the  griefs  of  men, 

And  the  years  will  find  you  turning 

To  that  mocking  voice  again, 

Which  ever  recurrent  whispers 
Like  the  chant  of  the  restless  sea 
"  I  will  harden  your  heart  or  break  it 
If  you  will  abide  with  me." 
84 


No  time  for  the  touch  of  gladness 

Nor  yet  for  the  boon  of  tears, 

We  toss  in  a  cloud  of  madness 

Whirled  round  by  the  whirling  years 
And  an  echo  lingers  always 
From  which  we  are  never  free 
"  I  will  harden  your  heart  or  break  it 
If  you  will  abide  with  me." 

Aye  !  carve  it  in  iron  letters 

High  over  your  widest  gate, 

Since  we  all  must  wear  the  fetters 

Who  seek  the  appointed  fate, 

And  the  winds  shall  bring  the  message 
Through  all  of  the  days  that  be 
"  I  will  harden  your  heart  or  break  it 
If  you  will  abide  with  me." 


"  L'ALLEGRO." 

A  RED  light  on  the  Tiber  came 

From  scarlet  banners  waved  on  high  ; 

A  city  wrapped  in  smoke  and  flame, 
With  blazing  columns  lit  the  sky. 


Above  the  tramp  of  rushing  feet, 
And  o'er  the  conflagration's  din, 

Arose,  in  measure  sharp  and  sweet, 
The  music  of  a  violin. 


86 


THE    PROMPTER. 

FROM  underneath  the  stage's  floor 
A  man  steps  upward  through  a  door, 
Leaving  behind  the  shrilling  din 
Of  cello  tuned,  and  violin, 
And  hears  across  the  building  vast 
One.  far,  faint  flute-note  ripple  past. 


Within  the  wings  he  takes  his  stand 

His  well-thumbed  book  in  lean  right  hand, 

And  pieces  out  from  page  to  page 

The  fool's  broad  jest  or  tyrant's  rage, 

The  lover's  lisp,  the  lady's  sigh 

And  headlong  warrior's  battle-cry. 

Not  his  to  mouth  the  motley  lines 
A  man  of  gestures,  and  of  signs  ; 
Of  humble  port  and  modest  mien 
With  presence  hardly  felt  or  seen, 
And  yet  whose  long  forefinger  gives 
The  cue  to  him  who  dies  or  lives. 
8? 


Not  his  to  mark  the  long-drawn  pause, 
The  silence  —  and  the  wild  applause 
When  nature,  through  the  actor's  art 
Smiles  in  on  each  awakened  heart, 
For  though  all  others  have  their  share 
None  heeds  the  patient  prompter  there. 


I  cry  you  mercy ;  by  God's  rood, 

When  death  has  stripped  them,  prone  and  nude, 

When  each  to  heaven  turns  his  brow 

This  prompter  shall  not  rate  as  now, 

But  as  a  man.  among  the  men, 

Be  reckoned  with  the  faithful  then. 


88 


APPLE-BLOSSOMS. 

NOT  apple-blossoms  for  the  old  home's  sake  ; 
The  hill-side  farm,  the  orchard  vistas  fair, 
Youth,   hope,  and   mother,  all  my  treasures 

there 
Not    apple-blossoms,    lest    my   heart    should 

break. 


89 


THE  WRAITH    OF    LOCHBURY. 

GRAY  battlements  of  ancient  stone, 
With  clinging  ivy  overgrown, 
And  granite  towers  rising  free 
Above  the  night-imprisoned  sea, 
Announced  in  stern  and  rugged  mien 
The  feudal  castle  of  Mac  Lean. 


And  up  and  down  the  gloomy  shore 

A  spectral  steed  his  rider  bore, 

As  through  the  night,  with  haunting  cry, 

A  wailing  horseman  galloped  by 

Along  the  lonely  ocean  sands, 

And  beat  his  breast  with  fleshless  hands. 


Far,  far  away,  'neath  Spanish  skies, 
A  Scottish  chieftain  dying  lies, 
And  with  his  glazing  eyes  he  sees 
His  castle  walls,  while  on  the  breeze 
He  hears  a  wailing,  moaning  cry, 
And  phantom  hoof-beats  gallop  by. 
90 


THE   SPHINX. 

COUCHED  in  the  dull  Egyptian  sands,  dumb, 

and  yet  with  a  voice  pathetic 
That  seems  to  come  from  the  stony  lips,  that 

ever  seems  to  say  : 
"I  am  a  part  of  the  old-world  life,  of  a  buried 

age  prophetic. 

I   am  a  rock  that  the  waves  of  time  will 
never  wear  away. 


"  Out  of  the  bygone  years  I  gaze,  desertward, 

and  my  meditation 
Sees  a  fold  of  the  tawny  sands,  where  once 

was  a  palace  tall ; 
And  I  hear  the  heart  of  the  great  world  beat, 

in  swinging,  slow  pulsation  ; 
The  great  world's  heart  that  throbs  the  same 
though  Pharaohs  rise  and  fall. 
9* 


"  Kings  and  queens  and  the  nations  all,  fading 

out  in  the  dust  together, 
And  centuries  long  that  vanished  in  '  to-mor 
row'  and  'to-day' : 
For  each  gray  age  has  floated  past  as  light  as 

an  ibis  feather, 

Since  I  was  hewn,  and  left  alone,  in  these 
sad  wastes  to  stay. 


"  And  in  the  visions  that  come  to  me  thro'  the 

curtains  rent  asunder 
That  hide  the  years —  I  have  heard  a  sound, 

all  rhythmical  and  vast ; 
The  mail-clad  tread  of  mighty  hosts  —  like  a 

measured  roll  of  thunder, 
The    tramp   of    the   Caesar's    legions,    the 
Romans  marching  past. 


"This,  all  this,  I  see  and  hear,  in  the  sun  and 

moon  and  night  winds  blowing, 
In  sunset  fire,  and  in  the  moon,  the  sheen  of 

whose  silver  disc, 
Is  scattering  down   the   cold   white   rays  on 

Nilus  softly  flowing, 

And  searching  out  the  pictured  scenes  on 
ruin  and  obelisk. 
92 


"  Come  what  come  may,  or  sun  or  storm,  the 

river's  calm  or  the  desert's  bleakness 
And  still  I  couch  in  the  shifting  sands  and 

watch  the  years  alone, 
Holding  within  my  giant  grasp  the  strength  of 

art  and  the  sculptor's  weakness, 
The  man  who  died  —  the  thought  that  lived 
in  everlasting  stone." 


93 


HE   TRAVELS  THE    FASTEST  WHO 
TRAVELS   ALONE. 

THE  stirrup-cup  's  drained  and  the  messenger 

flown  — 
He  travels  the  fastest  who  travels  alone. 

A  shout  of  "  God  speed  you,"  the  gleam  of  a 

spur 
And  the  hearth-flame  behind  sinks  away  in  a 

blur. 

A  form  in  the  darkness  that  fades  on  the  sight 
And  the  clatter  of  hoofs  as  he  rides  through 
the  night. 

Not  a  star  overhead,  nor  a  neighboring  lamp 
Save  the  fire-fly's  glimmer  in  marsh-vistas  damp, 

Or  a  spark  where  the  horse-shoe  strikes  sharp 

on  a  stone, 
He  travels  the  fastest  who  travels  alone. 

And  onward  and  onward  each  long  mile  is 

passed 

With  the  echo  of  horses1  hoofs  following  fast, 
94 


Till  the  gray  light  of  dawn  o'er  the  highway 

he  sees 
And  a  crowd  and  a  scaffold  loom  black  through 

the  trees. 

When  with  foam  from  the  charger  white- 
flecking  his  sleeve 

He  spurs  him  still  faster,  wild  crying,  "  Re 
prieve  1 " 

And   death  like  a  feather   now  backward  is 

blown 
He  travels  the  fastest  who  travels  alone. 


95 


AN   OLD   DAGUERREOTYPE. 

Two  clear,  grave  eyes,  that  wondering  look 

From  some  forgotten  long  ago ; 

A  childish  face  that  cannot  know 

The  secrets  hidden  in  the  book 

Of  future  years, 

The  care  and  toil,  the  busy  strife, 

The  joys  that  jewel  every  life, 

The  tears. 


From  that  lost  time  —  from  childhood-land  — 

The  wistful,  speaking,  hazel  eyes 

Look  out  as  on  unclouded  skies  ; 

Where  glowing  hopes  rise  hand  in  hand, 

And  sunshine  streams 

Along  the  path  of  breaking  day, 

While  all  the  shadows  fade  away, 

Like  dreams. 

96 


Thus  kept  by  art's  all-saving  grace 
Peeps  from  a  distant  hazy  nook 
Of  time  gone  by  this  sunny  look 
Upon  a  young,  untroubled  face, 
That  holds  within 

The  boyish  eyes,  those  limpid  springs 
No  taint  of  earth  or  earthly  things, 
No  sin. 


97 


A   PRODIGAL. 

I  HAVE  marked  the  gleam  of  the  ploughshare 

And  known  of  the  sweat  of  toil, 
Where   the   breath   from   the  horses'  nostrils 
puffed 

And  the  inky  curve  of  soil, 
Rolled  away  in  undulations 

As  a  black-snake  leaves  his  coil. 

When  the  axe  in  the  timber  sounded 
And  the  wedge  and  the  frizzled  maul, 

Had  found  the  heart  of  many  an  oak 
And  many  a  hickory  tall ; 

Where  branching  woodland  giants  crashed 
Down  thundering  to  their  fall. 

I  have  watched  the  paling  starlight 

As  a  sign  of  the  task  begun, 
And  my  feet  were  wet  by  the  midnight  dews 

And  my  brow  by  the  midday  sun, 
Till  the  harvest  moon  in  the  southern  skies 

Made  shift  for  a  day's  work  done. 


I  have  sat  in  the  herder's  saddle 
In  the  sleet  and  the  blinding  rain, 

And  heard  the  roll  of  hurrying  hoofs 
Beat  time  on  a  hollow  plain, 

And  whoso  works  with  a  strenuous  hand 
Has  labored  not  in  vain. 

And  at  last  in  a  towered  city 
Scarce  more  than  a  boy  I  stood, 

Where  the  smoke  hung  over  the  steeples 
Like  the  folds  of  a  witch's  hood  ; 

And  life  was  a  sea  before  me 

Where  those  survived  who  could. 

But  I  breasted  the  coming  billows 
And  swept  their  crests  aside, 

And  never  a  sea  or  dark  or  deep 
Could  drown  me  in  its  tide  ; 

And  held  my  peace  and  made  no  moan 
Where  some,  I  think,  had  died. 

And  each  for  himself  I  found  it 

However  you  stay  or  seek, 
And  bitter  the  strife  as  in  olden  days 

When  Greek  met  face  to  Greek  ; 
And  whatever  it  meant  for  the  strongest 

God  pity  the  young  and  weak. 
99 


Yet  ever  a  will  sustained  me 

When  even  Love  did  fail, 
And  made  my  soul  as  strong  as  though 

I  had  looked  on  the  Holy  Grail, 
And  the  deadliest  arrow  Fate  could  launch 

Fell  blunted  from  its  mail. 

And  always  an  eagle-spirit 

That  walls  could  not  confine, 
And  the  bane  of  the  three  temptations 

Of  woman,  song,  and  wine, 
And  the  husks  of  a  keen  repentance 

The  bed  with  the  sodden  swine. 

And  or  ever  a  God  seemed  distant 

In  my  direst  hour  of  need, 
Or  the  woman's  hand  I  leaned  upon 

Had  pierced  like  the  broken  reed, 
Or  I  passed  with  lip  still  thirsting 

From  the  cup  of  an  empty  creed, 

Then  I  turned  to  the  one  true  solace 

On  life's  wide  battlefield, 
A  pride  as  the  pride  of  Lucifer's 

Which  dared  but  did  not  yield  — 
And  whoso  has  it  at  its  best 

Lacks  neither  sword  nor  shield. 


And  each  to  his  own  accounting 

I  stand  prepared  for  mine, 
When  death  shall  call  for  volunteers 

To  step  from  the  foremost  line  ; 
And  none  will  go  more  hopefully 

Nor  with  lighter  heart  than  mine. 

And  he  who  shrinks  'neath  the  lash  of  Fate 

I  hold  is  a  base-born  clod, 
And  my  steps  bend  not  to  a  Father's  house 

Nor  yet  to  the  house  of  God, 
For  the  strength  of  pride  doth  still  abide 

To  spurn  the  chastening  rod. 


101 


ACCURSED. 

FROM  zone  to  zone,  from  east  to  west 
In  all  the  lands  of  sun  and  snow, 
My  weary  footsteps  to  and  fro 
Through  laggard  centuries  have  pressed, 
And  evermore  by  land  and  sea 
A  haunting  vision  follows  me, 
By  night  and  day. 

Upon  the  cloud-arched  stage  of  Time 

The  curtain'd  years  roll  to  the  skies ; 

And  there  before  my  dazzled  eyes 

A  thorn-crowned  Presence  stands  sublime. 

I  hear  a  voice —  I  hear  it  now  — 

In  ringing  accents,  "  Tarry  thou 

Until  I  come !" 


102 


ISHMAEL. 

UPON  my  vow  I  stand  or  fall, 

Lo  !  here  am  I  alone, 
My  hand  against  the  hands  of  all 

And  theirs  against  my  own  ; 
My  roof  the  stars,  my  bed  the  sod, 

The  desert-home  for  me, 
No  hope  nor  fear  of  man  or  God 

So  be  it,  let  it  be. 


My  hairy  sandals  on  my  feet, 

My  dagger  in  my  hand, 
With  shaggy  courser  eagle-fleet 

To  skim  the  level  sand. 
The  quiver  o'er  my  shoulder  hung 

The  bow  across  it  bent, 
My  gage  against  the  whole  world  flung 

And  so  I  rest  content. 
103 


I  know  not,  I,  the  touch  of  grief, 

Of  pity  or  of  tears  ; 
Nor  heed  as  much  as  falling  leaf 

The  passing  of  the  years  ; 
Long  since  Death  sealed  my  early  vow 

And  often  shall  again, 
Time  stamps  no  Cain-mark  on  my  brow 

For  these  vile  sons  of  men. 


Cold  in  the  cloudless  sky  above 

Float  the  eternal  stars, 
And  cold  my  breath  to  thoughts  of  love 

But  'neath  my  battle-scars 
Leaps  the  red  blood  in  warmth  elate 

To  meet  my  hated  foe, 
As  forth  I  rush  to  seek  my  fate 

With  dagger  and  with  bow. 


The  blood  of  man  has  stained  my  hands 

My  heart  has  turned  to  stone. 
I  roam  a  scourge  along  the  sands, 

A  king  without  a  throne. 
The  very  lion  shuns  my  path, 

And  legends  utter  when 
I  raised  my  voice  in  first-time  wrath 

Against  the  sons  of  men. 
104 


MAGDALEN. 

HAD  she  sold  herself  for  lucre,  were  it  but  by 

the  laws  of  man 
She  had  reigned  it  proudly  and  royally  and  had 

never  known  the  ban, 
For  the  world  can  bend  and  stoop  and  cringe 

to  a  married  courtesan. 


The  doors  of  the  temples  shut  her  out  that 

welcome  the  righteous  in 
And  she  sits  by  a  homeless  hearth  and  waits 

with  ghosts  of  might-have-been, 
And  the    Pharisees  in  the  market-place  will 

tell  you  of  her  sin. 

And  still  where  the   earth's  broad   highways 

*    trend  she  weaves  her  lingering  spell 
As  a  spider  weaves  his  filmy  web  and  lurks  in 

an  inner  cell 

And  her  feet  go  down  to  death  they  say,  and 
her  steps  take  hold  on  hell. 
J°5 


But   choose   from   a   thousand    maxims   wise, 
fine-sifted  through  wisdom's  sieve 

And  never  a  one  will  teach  mankind  the  sound 
of  the  word  "forgive," 

Yet  this  for  her  arts  and  her  blandishments  — 
how  else  is  she  to  live  ? 

And  there's  never  a  man  shall  raise  his  voice 

to  speak  for  Magdalen, 
And  never  a  woman  will  take  her  hand  nor 

teach  her  hope  again  ; 
Who  recks  of  the  Man  of  Calvary  when  the 

church  has  said  "Amen"? 


1 06 


. 


RE-INCARNATION. 

A  CHILD,  he  played  as  other  children  do, 
Mourned  not  the  old,  nor  reckoned  of  the  new. 

A  man,  he  strove  with  dogma  and  with  creed 
To  solve  the  problem  of  the  spirit's  need. 

Then  old  age  came,  and  made  him  as  a  child, 
With  earth  and  God  and  all  things  reconciled. 


107 


THE   LOST  SOULS. 

IN  vast  mid-space,  upon  a  cloudy  steep 
The  lost  souls  gathered,  as  apart  from  all 
Where  looking  downward  they  could  see  the 

pall 

Of  floating  smoke  o'er  Satan's  donjon  keep, 
And  gazing  upward  through  an  azure  deep 
They  marked  the  outlines  of  the  jasper  wall 
That  circled  Eden,  and  the  towers  tall 
Where  golden  chimes  sank  fitfully  to  sleep. 

These  were  the  souls  who,  living,  loved  and 

lost, 

But  after  life  had  sought  and  claimed  their  own 
And  fled  with  them  in  starry  realms  to  dwell. 
And  side  by  side  along  the  heights  they  crossed 
'Mid  the  white  lilies  of  the  moon  outblown 
Not  needing  Heaven  and  not  fearing  Hell. 


1 08 


SUNSET. 

A  RIVER'S  shores  —  the  current's  sweep  be 
tween 
Flecked  with  dead   leaves  ;    while  here  and 

there-  a  stone 

Rears  its  rude  bulk  against  the  ripples  thrown  ; 
In  shadowy  stretch  of  undulating  green 
The  broad  banks  lie,  and  further  on  the  sheen 
Of  purple  thickets  fleetingly  is  shown  ; 
And  o'er  the  placid  waters  brooding  lone 
Twilight  and  Darkness,  weird  twin-sisters  lean. 

And  one  still  pool  as  slow  the  day  declines, 
Holds  close  the  sunset's  glory  in  its  deeps 
In  colors  that  no  mortal  tongue  could  name ; 
And  now  as  night  comes  etched  in  dusky  lines 
Low  in  the  limpid  water  fitful  sleeps 
One  last  red  gleam  that  shimmers  like  a  flame. 


109 


LILITH. 

I,  WANDERING  in  a  certain  waste  alone 
In  lands  deserted,  where  no  wild  bird  called, 
Before  the  desolation  stood  appalled 
That  stretched  away  in  dreary  monotone  ; 
The  wind  went  muttering  like  a  withered  crone 
And  stunted  trees  in  grayish  moss  were  shawled, 
A  marshy  mist,  slow  moving,  upward  crawled 
And  sullen  nature  brooded,  turned  to  stone. 

But  on  a  sudden  by  a  swampy  space 
In  weaving  lines  of  breezy  disarray, 
A  host  of  saffron  lilies  thronged  the  air, 
And  I  bethought  me  of  a  woman's  face 
As  fair,  as  sweet,  as  languorous  as  they, 
The  sunlight  on  her  tangled  yellow  hair. 


no 


SONNET  TO    MUSIC. 

I  ASK  not  meat,  a  little  bread  will  do 

And   cup  of  water  dipped   from   some   clear 

stream 

Where  lazily  the  ripples  croon  and  dream 
Adown  the  shining  cresses  slipping  through  ; 
No  more  than  this,  for  when  Pan  comes  to  woo 
The  silence  with  his  pipings,  then  I  seem 
To  lose  myself  in  rapture,  as  I  deem 
Were  lost,  long  since,  Ulysses  and  his  crew  ; 
For  as  the  western  winds  go  rustling  by 
O'er  treetops  tall  and  rushes  sere  and  bent 
And  herd-boy  brown  with  willow-whistle  dry 
Shrills  out  his  tunes  through  the  lone  meadow 

sent 

Then  fill  mine  eyes  to  blindness  there  for  I  — 
Give  me  but  music  and  I  rest  content. 


in 


MIDNIGHT   AT  SEA. 

TALL  rise  the  mighty  masts,  while  ashen  sails, 
Distended  by  the  fast  increasing  breeze 
Throw  ghostly  shades  upon  the  heaving  seas  ; 
The  glittering  moon  alternate  shines  and  pales 
And  fraught  with  ancient  echoes  of  the  gales 
The   cordage    sighs,   like   wind-swept    forest 

trees ; 

And  then  with  one  long  swerve  the  vessel  frees 
Her  form  from  all  the  shadows,  as  she  scales 
A  giant  steep,  while  down  the  moonlight  pours ; 
And  on  and  on  the  myriad  billows  roll 
In  endless  race  across  the  pulsing  deeps, 
Until  at  last  where  far  Australia  sleeps, 
Each  wave  falls  headlong  on  the  sandy  shores 
Like  a  spent  runner  sinking  at  the  goal. 


THE   SPINNING   DERVISH. 

HE  wears  a  turban  round  his  head 
And  on  his  feet  are  pointed  shoes, 
While  from  his  waist  a  skirt  outspread 
Such  as  the  tawny  Arabs  use 
Describes  a  circle  from  his  hips 
And  rustles  like  a  lady's  fan, 
His  teeth  gleam  whitely  'twixt  his  lips  — 
The  silent  Oriental  man. 


Then  slow  he  turns  from  left  to  right 
His  arms  outstretched,  long,  lean  and  browned 
By  suns  that  on  Sahara  smite, 
And  round  and  round  and  round  and  round 
He  moves  in  circles  slow  unfurled 
From  where  his  journey  first  began, 
Like  dust  upon  the  desert  whirled 
The  silent  Oriental  man. 
8  113 


Round,  round  and  round,  my  eyes  grow  dim  ; 
His  whirling  figure  seems  to  change, 
The  very  earth  goes  round  with  him 
Forsooth  1  but  this  is  passing  strange, 
A  broken  glimpse  of  twisting  heels 
And  ornaments  of  beaten  brass, 
I  catch,  as  round  the  Dervish  reels 
While  one  by  one  the  minutes  pass. 

The  half-hour  wanes  ;  and  on  he  spins 
With  hands  uplifted,  clenched  and  still, 
A  mighty  maze  of  outs  and  ins 
Impelled  by  weird   fanatic  will, 
In  cloudless  skies  the  far  sun  burns 
And  shadows  lengthen  by  a  span, 
While  round  and  round  and  round  he  turns 
The  silent  Oriental  man. 

So  are  we  all  from  God's  right  hand 
Sent  spinning  into  boundless  space, 
And  when  upright  we  cannot  stand 
Death  comes  and  thus  we  lose  our  place. 
Spin,  spin,  ye  mortals,  I  can  smile, 
Remembering  this  primeval  plan 
Watching  with  steady  gaze  meanwhile 
The  silent  Oriental  man. 


114 


THE    MEN    OF    THE    SHOVEL    AND 
PICK. 

THE  last  tie  was  laid  on  the  highway  of  steel 

And  fastened  the  last  shining  rail ; 
The  long  parallels  stretched  away  to  the  west 

On  a  road-bed  of  gravel  and  shale  ; 
And  round  by  a  curve  was  an  onlooking  crowd, 

Where  an  arm  was  uplifted  to  strike, 
While  glistened  below  in  the  sun's  dying  rays, 

The  head  of  a  solid  gold  spike. 

There  was  sparkle  of  wine  as  they  drove  the 

spike  home 

And  eloquence  thrilling  to  feel ; 
The  hand-clasp  of  continents  almost  it  seemed 

This  masculine  gripping  of  steel ; 
But  over  it  all  swept  a  whirling  of  wraiths 

As  of  snow-flakes  foregathering  thick, 
Dim   forms   of  forgotten   ones,   brawny,  un 
couth, 

The  men  of  the  shovel  and  pick. 
"5 


Red-shirted,  shag-bearded,  and  hairy  of  chest 

As  Hercules  rugged  and  strong, 
They  loomed  like  the   heroes    tense-muscled 
and  stark 

That  up  from  Mythology  throng, 
And  all  else  faded  out  as  the  mist  does  at  dawn 

While  the  clouds  lifted,  fold  upon  fold, 
And  tinged  by  the  sunset,  and  framed  in  its 
rays 

A  vision  of  battle  unrolled. 

For  I  saw  a  wide  desert  of  alkali  gray 

Where  the  dews  never  gladdened  the  plain, 
Where  no  plant  save  the   cactus   uplifted   its 
leaves 

And  no  drop  ever  fell  of  the  rain  ; 
Yet  here  were  these  men  in  the  pitiless  sun, 

In  the  stifling  and  dust-laden  air, 
With  their  shovels  and  picks  that  were  bran 
dished  on  high 

By  knotted  arms,  sunburned  and  bare. 

And  I  saw  them  again  in  the  cold  autumn  rain 

When  the  merciless  desert  was  passed, 
Saw  them  face  the  sharp  sleet  and  enveloping 

snows 

In  the  storm-wake  down-following  fast ; 
116 


But  they  faltered  not,  failed  not,  nor  looked 

they  behind 

As  those  who  grow  weary  and  sore, 
For  each  man  was  a  knight  and  the  weapons 

he  had 
Were  the  shovel  and  pick  that  he  bore. 

And  I  saw  them  once  more,  when  their  eyes 
had  beheld 

The  Pacific's  blue  density  roll, 
And  their  lips  were  unclosed  with  the  eagerness 
then 

Of  a  runner  who  bends  to  the  goal ; 
And  from  out  of  the  ages  an  echo  uprose 

Far-reaching  and  drifted  to  me, 
A  shout  from  the  dust,  call  it  dust  if  you  will, 

Of  "  Thalassa,  Thalassa,  the  sea  !  1" 

So  I  give  not  a  thought  to  the  spike  of  pure 
gold 

That  finished  the  highway  of  steel, 
Since  the  noblest  is  highest,  not  metal  but  men, 

And  stamped  with  humanity's  seal ; 
And  larger  they  loom,  and  still  faster  they  come 

As  the  snow-flakes  foregathering  thick, 
While  I  feel  as  I  gaze  that  the  last  shall  be  first, 

These  men  of  the  shovel  and  pick. 

117 


ECCE   SIGNUM. 

THE  wealth  of  Croesus  one  had  gained, 

One  told  his  ancient  line  ; 
Another  honors  high  attained  — 

They  died,  and  made  no  sign. 

One  yielded  life  his  friend  to  save, 

A  beggar  one  did  dine  ; 
One  sang  a  song  to  free  the  slave  — 

They  died,  but  made  the  sign. 

Oh,  thou  whose  memory  is  the  cross, 
And  crown  of  thorns  divine  ; 

Dear  Christ,  let  me  not  know  that  loss 
To  die,  and  make  no  sign. 


118 


THE   BAR   SINISTER. 

THERE  was  a  cruel  king  in  olden  times 
Long,  long  ago,  and  like  a  subtle  web, 
His  castle  lay  with  drawbridge  and  with  moat, 
Portcullises,  and  sombre  donjon  keep  ; 
And  he,  like  some  mailed  spider,  kept  aloof 
Till  strangers  came,  wayfarers  passing  by, 
And  then  he  lured  them  to  his  inner  halls 
And  kept  them  close  in  stern  captivity. 

So  once  there  came  a  knight  of  goodly  port 
A  youthful  knight,  and  singing  as  he  rode, 
And  past  the  gloomy  castle  would  have  spurred, 
Had  not  the  king,  Ah  !  cunning  were  his  ways, 
Sent  forth  a  seneschal  in  armor  dressed 
Of  inlaid  gold,  who  bade  the  knight  to  pause, 
Until  the  message  from  the  castle  gates 
Had  been  delivered  and  an  answer  given. 
119 


And  thus  began  the  wily  seneschal 
"  My  king  doth  send  his  greeting,  and  he  says, 
"  That  so  ye  come  within  his  castle  walls 
"  And  enter  in  his  service,  so  ye  shall 
"  Be  leader  of  his  knights,  and  glory  reap 
"  Such  as  no  leader  yet  of  high  renown, 
"  Hath  ever  topp'd  ;  not  Lion-Heart  himself, 
H<  The  black-faced   Richard,  shall   be  peer  of 
thine." 

And  said  the  listening  knight  with  mien  un 
moved 
"  I  enter  not  within  thy  liege's  walls." 

Then  back  returned  the  stately  seneschal 
And  after  him  came  out  a  wrinkled  sage, 
Some  dark  magician  of  those  feudal  days  — 
And  heaped  were  both  his  palms  with  jewels 

rare, 

Lone  diamonds  that  held  the  steely  flash 
Of  winter  moonlight  on  a  naked  sword, 
Emeralds  as  green  as  dense,  unsounded  seas. 
And  redder  than  the  stain  of  roses  bruised 
Yea  !  ruddier  than  January's  sun, 
Rubies  he  held,  and  sapphires  too  were  there 
That  paled  and  gleamed  alternate  to  the  sight. 


120 


And  quoth  the  ancient  one,  "  Behold  I  bring 
"  All  these  and  more,  with  countless  hoards  of 

gold 

"  For  thee  intact,  an  thou  wilt  come  with  me 
"  To  serve  my  king,  who  waits  thy  gracious 

word." 

And  said  the  listening  knight  in  cold  disdain 
"  I  enter  not  within  thy  liege's  walls." 

Then  to  the  castle,  lingering  went  the  sage 
While    back    returned    to   greet   the   waiting 

knight, 

A  woman  of  such  presence  that  she  seemed 
Akin  to  that  famed  Helen  of  the  Greeks, 
Whom  nations  battled  for  in  days  agone ; 
For  tall  was  she,  and  graceful  as  an  elm 
And  robed  in  white,  with  lilies  at  her  throat, 
Wind-blown  her  hair,  that  like  a  torrent  fell 
Full  to  her  feet,  a  cataract  of  bronze  ; 
And    in    her    eyes    the    lights    and    shadows 

changed 

Of  languor  and  of  quick  intelligence, 
While  every  feature  was  all  womanly 
And  beautiful  beyond  perfection's  charm. 


121 


Her  arms  were  bare,  and  smooth  as  ivory 
While  at  her  side  she  placed  a  silver  harp, 
And  over  all  its  strings  her  fingers  ran 
As  light  as  thought,  and  following  music  came 
Like  running  water,  blent  with  plaintive  winds ; 
And  sweet  it  was,  and  powerful  and  strange, 
As  when  one  rises  from  a  bed  of  boughs, 
And  stands  at  midnight  under  solemn  stars 
Listening  alone,  and  hears  the  breezes  thrill 
With  nameless  chords  the  silence  of  the  trees  ; 
And  when  she  sang  the  passion  of  her  voice 
Rang  clear  and  high,  then  melted  into  tears. 

And  thus  she  gave  her  message  to  the  knight 
"  If  in  thy  gramercy  thou  seest  fit 
"To  serve  my  liege,  my  father,  and  our  land 
"  Lo  I   I  am  thine,  and  king  thou  'It  be  in  time 
fi  With  all  the  store  of  treasure  promised  thee, 
"And  high  renown,  as  said  the  seneschal ; 
"  Wealth,  glory,  love,  all,  all  is  offered  thee." 

And   said   the   listening  knight  with  scornful 

smile 
*'  I  enter  not  within  thy  liege's  walls." 


122 


And  slowly  back,  the  princess  castlewards 
Her  steps  retraced,  and  brought  his  answer 

there  ; 
Whereat   the  king's   grim   forehead  wrinkled 

deep 
The  while  he  gave  the  mandate   "  Let  him 

pass.'1 

But  at  the  dawn,  the  curious  seneschal 

Upon    the    highway    where    the    knight    had 

paused, 

Did  early  search,  and  where  the  cavalier 
Had  made  dismount  to  tighten  saddle  girths, 
He  found  a  sign  that  blanched  his  swarthy 

cheek, 
The  print  of  cloven  hoofs  upon  the  sands. 


123 


THE    PRODIGALS. 

WHEN  the  roses  of  summer  were  budding  and 

blooming 
And  the  yellow  wheat  bent  'neath  its  burden 

of  gold, 
The    Prodigal    Son   came,   world-weary   and 

tattered, 

To  the  home  where  his  footsteps  had  echoed 
of  old. 


And  they  clung  to  his  garments  with  tears  and 

caresses, 
Till  the  cup  of  his  welcome  ran  over  with 

joy» 

And  the  flowers  of  love  and  forgiveness  were 

woven 

In  a   blossoming  crown  for  the   Prodigal 
Boy. 

124 


When  the  icicles  hung  from  the  eaves  and  the 

branches, 
And  the  winter  winds  moaned   round  the 

dwellings  of  men, 

Forsaken  and  homeless,  the  Prodigal  Daughter 
Crept   back  to  the   home  of  her  girlhood 
again. 

But  they  turned  her  away  in  the  storm  and 

the  darkness 
To    the    icy-cold    winds   with    their   chill, 

piercing  breath, 
And    the    pitiless    curses    that    followed    her 

footsteps 

Were   fierce  as  the   tempest  and   cruel  as 
death  ! 


DEAR    HEART,   SWEET    HEART. 

DEAR  heart,  sweet  heart,  your  baby  hands 

Have  touched  and  passed  this  floating  world, 
Have  loosed  their  hold  on  life's  frail  strands 

And  now  upon  your  breast  lie  furled 
Twin  blossoms  of  eternal  peace, 

Like  lilies  on  untroubled  streams, 
When  the  rude  winds  have  made  surcease 

And  summer's  glory  drifts  and  dreams. 


Dear  heart,  sweet  heart,  your  waxen  lips 

Shall  never  touch  my  cheek  again, 
For  they  are  steeped  in  an  eclipse 

Which  lies  beyond  my  mortal  ken  ; 
And  that  great  sphinx  of  death  who  keeps 

His  silent  vigil  over  all, 
Has  left  your  face  as  one  who  sleeps  — 

Save  for  the  bosom's  rise  and  fall. 
126 


Dear  heart,  sweet  heart,  your  tender  eyes 

With  all  their  depths  of  wondering, 
Are  closed  for  aye  ;  as  droops  and  dies 

The  first  sweet  violet  bank  of  spring  ; 
And  their  far  look  of  thought  unthought 

Shall  never  come  again,  or  be, 
Since  this  remorseless  change  was  wrought, 

That  closed  the  gates  'twixt  thee  and  me. 

Dear  heart,  sweet  heart,  the  lonely  way 

Seems  doubly  steep  since  you  are  gone, 
The  dawn  has  faded  out  of  day, 

The  rose  has  faded  out  of  dawn  ; 
And  I,  alas,  must  needs  go  down 

My  hand  unclasped  by  any  child, 
To  wear  the  Cross  without  the  crown 

And  walk  through  life  unreconciled. 

Dear  heart,  sweet  heart,  'mid  hopes  and  fears 

I  bend  and  kiss  you,  thus,  and  thus ; 
Mine  eyes  are  dim  with  brimming  tears 

My  lips  with  grief  are  tremulous  ; 
My  baby  boy  —  that  you  should  die 

And  out  into  the  darkness  go, 
Beyond  my  broken-hearted  cry, 

I  loved  you  so,  I  loved  you  so. 


127 


THE   CHRISTIAN. 

THERE  was  a  tawny  woman  of  the  sands 
Lithe-limbed  and  rounded,  and  who  moved  at 

ease 

With  sinuous  grace  as  some  wild  leopardess 
On  desert  wilds  ;  and  black  her  piercing  eyes 
As  the  great  vulture's  of  the  snowy  peaks, 
Who  all  day  long  hung  pendent  in  the  clouds 
And  watched  the  lazy  caravans  pace  by. 

And  whiles  there  came  a  traveller  in  those 

ways 

And  sat  him  down  beside  the  desert  well, 
Ate  the  dry  dates  and  cooled  his  parching  lips 
And  told  strange  tales  of  a  mysterious  God 
Who  ruled  the  world,  and  taught  the  willing 

stars, 

To  whirl  submissive  in  their  orbits  round  ; 
And  sang  his  praises  with  inspiring  voice 
Till  in  the  breast  of  this  lone  creature  leaped 
A  pulsing  flame  of  hope  that  flickered  up 
As  dawn's  faint  tapers  light  unwilling  skies. 
128 


Over  her  troubled  fancy  then  there  came 
A  vague  outreaching  of  awakened  life, 
And  filled  with  helpful  longing  for  her  kind, 
She  left  the  green  oasis  of  her  youth 
And  traversed  many  a  mile  of  burning  sands, 
Until  the  gates  of  pagan  cities  loomed 
Before  her  pathway  menacing  and  bare. 

And  entering  in,  with  rapt,  transfigured  face, 
She  spent  her  days  and  sacrificed  her  nights 
Until  at  length,  the  pagan  language  learned, 
With  eager  lips  she  told  the  Christian  creed, 
The  love  of  God,  the  spotless  life  of  Christ, 
Faith,  hope,  and  charity,  and  tenderness. 

And  when  the  pagans  made  a  holiday 
They  gave  her  to  the  lions  for  her  pains. 


129 


AS   FOR   ME,    I    HAVE  A   FRIEND. 

LET  the  sower  scatter  seed 

Where  the  crumbling  furrows  blend  ; 
Let  the  churchman  praise  his  creed 

The  beginning  and  the  end  ; 

As  for  me,  I  have  a  friend. 


Does  the  sun  forget  to  shine 
And  the  wind  blow  sere  and  chill  ? 

Does  the  cluster  leave  the  vine, 
And  the  ice  begird  the  rill  ? 
I  shall  rest  contented  still. 


Must  the  rose  be  stripped  of  leaf 
When  the  waning  June  has  passed? 

Shall  an  autumn  voice  its  grief 
In  the  lorn  November  blast  ? 
What  of  that,  a  friend  will  last. 
130 


Why  should  I,  then,  make  complaint 
To  the  days  that  round  me  roll? 

She  my' missal  is,  and  saint, 

Clad  in  womanhood's  white  stole, 
She,  the  keeper  of  my  soul. 

Not  love's  chalice  to  my  lips, 

Not  that  bitter  draught  she  brings, 

Which  as  Hybla's  honey  drips 

And  like  bosomed  asp-worm  stings, 
No  !  she  tells  of  happier  things. 

Simple  friendship,  just  that  much 
To  enfold  me  as  a  strand 

Of  her  hair  might ;  and  the  touch 
Of  a  gracious,  welcoming  hand 
That  I  grasp,  and  understand. 

Let  death  ope  or  lock  his  gate 
Let  the  lilies  break  or  bend, 

And  the  iron  will  of  fate 
Sorrows  now  or  fortune  send, 
As  for  me,  I  have  a  friend. 


IN    PASSING. 

THROUGH  halls  whose  carven  panels  held 

A  host  of  cherubim, 
Up  stairways  wide  I  wandered  on 

Through  curtained  vistas  dim, 
And  ever  as  my  footsteps  came 

By  alcove,  hall  and  stair, 
A  myriad  mirrors  started  up 

And  caught  my  shadow  there. 

Sometimes  my  profile  paled  and  sank 

A  smile  upon  my  lips. 
Sometimes  a  blur  my  features  were 

Swift  darkening  to  eclipse  ; 
But  following  as  these  figures  fled 

Faint  ghosts  of  grayish  gleams  — 
I  walked  beside,  as  one  who  walks 

Companioned  in  his  dreams. 
132 


Oh  I  winding  years  that  round  my  path 

Like  mirrors  flash  and  pass, 
Once,  always,  do  you  hold  for  me 

The  wraith  within  the  glass  ; 
Some  night  or  day,  some  star  or  sun 

(As  what  should  say,  "  Beware  !") 
Reveals  in  your  dead  seasons'  flight 

My  shadow  passing  there. 


133 


FOAM-WRAITHS  AND 
DRIFTWOOD. 


THE   SEA. 

LIKE  some  lone,  wild  creature  that  paces  all 

day, 
Back  and  forth   behind   bars  in  its  dumb, 

strong  wish  to  be  free, 
So  paces  forever  all  haggard  and  gray, 

On  its  earth-bound  shores,  the  mysterious 
soul  of  the  sea. 

All  through  the  night,  when  silvery  moon  and 

stars 
Gleam   from   their    heights    above,    on   the 

restless  waters  below, 

And  all  day  long,  still  beating  against  its  bars, 
Surges  the  might  of  the  Ocean  in  endless 
ebb  and  flow. 

Ebb  and  flow,  in  a  mournful  ceaseless  pacing, 
Shaking    its    barriers    firm,    with    tireless, 

tremulous  hands, 
And  its  steps  in  sadness  tracing  and  slowly 

retracing 

On  prison  floors  of  pallid  and  shifting  sands. 
'37 


DERELICT. 

UNHEEDED  from  the  main-top  mast 

Her  fluttering  pennon  sweeps  ; 
The  anchor  from  the  cat-head  hangs 

No  hand  the  tiller  keeps  ; 
No  sailors  man  her  creaking  yards 

No  storms  her  ways  restrict, 
As  on  through  wastes  of  billowy  seas 

She  wanders,  derelict. 


Her  skipper  is  old  Boreas 

Her  master  is  the  sea  ; 
No  shout  across  the  plunging  waves 

May  reach  to  such  as  she  ; 
And  woe  to  that  unhappy  wretch 

Who  signals  her  to  save, 
For  she  is  naught  but  passionless 

And  passive  as  the  grave. 
138 


For  her  the  vast  and  briny  deep 

That  still  unceasing  rolls, 
The  veering  change  of  time  and  tide 

The  tropics,  and  the  poles  ; 
What  recks  she  now  of  welcoming  port 

Or  voyage  yet  to  be  ? 
What  boots  the  cry  of  "  Ship  ahoy" 

To  vagrants  of  the  sea  ? 


Alike  to  her  the  seasons  pass 

With  sunlight  or  with  snow, 
Alike  to  her  are  dusk  and  dawn, 

And  refluent  ebb  and  flow, 
Of  rain  or  shine  she  recketh  not 

Nor  scent  of  pine  or  palm, 
And  one  to  her  the  miracles 

Of  hurricane  and  calm. 


No  hope  is  centred  in  her  fate 

No  souls  upon  her  sail, 
Companioned  only  by  the  winds 

That  through  her  rigging  trail, 
For  her  no  hands  are  clasped  in  prayer 

Nor  anxious  eyes  bedimmed, 
As  black  against  the  moon's  bright  disc 

Her  sombre  spars  are  limned. 
139 


But  light  and  shade  shall  still  be  hers 

The  white  wake  off  to  lee  — 
Pale  starlight,  and  a  myriad  stars 

Night-etched  upon  the  sea, 
And  in  her  shrouds  the  wind  will  sing 

And  sea-birds  round  her  play, 
As  dumbly  on  her  questless  quest 

She  follows  day  by  day. 


And  they  who  for  her  cargo  seek 

Will  track  the  seas  in  vain  ; 
Will  plough  the  wave,  but  never  reap, 

A  harvest  from  the  main  ; 
For  her  tall  masts  the  lookout  keen 

In  vain  the  skies  will  scan, 
Abandoned  —  she  shall  know  no  more 

The  tyranny  of  man. 

But  with  the  wind  and  wave  and  foam 

In  freedom  will  she  toss, 
And  spread  her  canvas  to  the  breeze 

As  some  great  albatross  ; 
And  proudly  shall  her  dark  prow  dip 

As  courtiers  bend  the  knee 
To  greet  their  sovereign,  as  she  greets, 

Her  sovereign  lord,  the  sea. 
140 


And  thus  a  wraith,  a  mote,  a  speck, 

In  watery  solitudes, 
She  sails,  and  hears  the  siren  song 

Of  ocean's  circe-moods  ; 
For  neither  home  not  harbor  bound 

Naught  shall  her  course  restrict, 
While,  like  men's  souls  in  worlds  to  come 

She  wanders,  derelict. 


141 


AN    ETCHING. 

I  STOOD  upon  a  stretch  of  sandy  shore, 
Around  me  hung  the  shadows  of  the  night, 
The  rising  tide  came  creeping  o'er  the  beach. 

Far  out  along  the  mighty  ocean  fell 
The  garments  of  the  dusk,  fold  after  fold, 
And  through  the  ebon  barriers  on  high 
The  stars  looked  down  upon  a  sleeping  world  ; 
Fresh  from  the  waves  a  rich  sea-incense  came 
Salt-sweet  and  pure,  and  drifted  idly  past, 
To  wander  in  the  midst  of  distant  woods, 
Where  violets  and  sweet  wood-flowers  grew. 

Then  from  the  darkling  seas  the  moon  rose  up, 
Up  from  unsounded  depths  and  lay  across 
The  black  expanse  of  waters  like  a  shield  ; 
And  suddenly  upon  its  pallid  sheen 
A  ship  was  etched,  in  clear-cut,  stately  lines, 
And  seemed  to  hang,  a  picture  in  the  sky. 
142 


With  sails  all  spread,  with  pennant  far  out 
stretched, 

Spars,  masts  and  rigging,  all  in  form  exact, 
Held  for  a  moment  in  a  silver  disc 
Etched    by    the    wayward    touch   of    flitting 

chance. 

So  for  an  instant  did  I  see  it  thus 
And  then  it  vanished,  quickly  as  a  dream, 
Dropped  from  its  shining  frame  to  nothingness 
From  shadows  born  to  shadow-land  returned. 

So  men  are  etched  upon  the  glass  of  fate  ; 
So  gleams  and  vanishes  the  ship  of  life. 


'43 


DROWNED. 

FAR  in  the  folds  of  the  pitiless  deeps 

Where  dense  blue  waters  in  silence  go 
Back  and  forth  as  the  tide-wave  sweeps 

In  the  dusky  vaults  of  the  sea  below, 
With  his  hair  blown  out  in  streaming  strands 

And  the  film  of  death  on  his  strange  set  eyes, 
A  bit  of  plank  in  his  tight-clenched  hands, 

A  sailor  stretched  in  his  slumber  lies. 


Never  a  prayer  or  a  burial  hymn 

For  one  whose  grave  is  the  restless  deep, 
Where  waves  roll  on  through  the  arches  dim 

And  shadows  over  the  billows  creep 
Back  and  forth  in  a  ceaseless  race, 

As  ebbs  and  flows  the  wandering  tide, 
The  pallid  stare  of  a  fixed,  white  face, 

And  nerveless  arms  that  are  flung  aside. 
144 


And  never  a  sound  can  reach  him  there 

From  the  blue  sea's  breast  or  its  outmost  rim, 
A  sweetheart's  cry  or  a  mother's  prayer 

Never  can  touch  or  awaken  him  ; 
And  Gabriel's  trump  on  the  last  dark  day, 

Will  call  in  vain  from  its  briny  bed, 
The  sailor's  soul,  for  it  rests  for  aye 

With  the  uncalled  souls  mid   the  Ocean's 
dead. 


10 


THE    MERMAID'S   SONG. 

IN  ocean  reefs  my  home  lies  hid, 

And  dark  sea  shadows  o'er  me 
Wind  in  and  out  the  waves  amid 

Or  stand  in  gloom  before  me : 
Till,  drifting  down  upon  the  deep 

Comes  day,  a  message  bringing 
That  wakes  the  billows  from  their  sleep 

And  sets  the  shells  to  singing. 


I  know  the  inner  haunts  of  caves 

That  line  the  rocky  reaches, 
I  know  the  secrets  of  the  waves 

That  break  on  lonely  beaches  ; 
I  hear  the  waters  come  and  go 

As  far  the  ocean  ranges, 
And  listen  to  the  ebb  and  flow 

That  mark  the  pale  moon's  changes. 
146 


For  me  the  rocks  where  sea-weed  clings 

Like  winding  wreaths  of  laurel, 
Where  spectral  music  rolls  and  rings 

Through  shining  groves  of  coral, 
For  me  the  spell  of  weaving  hands 

For  me  the  meadows  vernal, 
Where  mermaids  dance  in  mystic  bands 

To  ocean's  chant  eternal. 


147 


FALSE   CHORDS. 

I  LISTEN,  but  I  listen  all  in  vain, 

Amid  the  jangle  of  be-ribboned  lyres 

(The  which  our  modern  poets  strum  upon.) 

For  some    heart-note,    some   echo   of    great 

thoughts 

To  thrill  me  and  uplift  me  like  the  breath 
Of  sudden  brine  from  out  old  ocean's  breast, 
Fresh-dashing  in  my  face  a  kiss  of  dawn. 


But  so  it  is,  that  all  I  hear  —  good  God, 
Is  art,  art,  art,  and  sickly  plaintive  runes 
Of  flowers,  birds,  and  lovelorn  serenades, 
In  cunning  form,  fine  moulded  for  the  ear, 
Frail  word-mosaics  of  these  lesser  days  ; 
Or  failing  that,  there  comes  a  mystic  chant 
Of  dense,   dull   verse,   whose   secret   lies   in 

gloom, 

Swathed  like  a  mummy  in  his  cerements. 
148 


And   these   are   nothing   but   false  chords,    I 

know ; 

For  true-born  singers  smite  Apollo's  harp 
With  something  of  the  spirit  of  a  god, 
And  give  their  very  life-blood  to  the  song. 

Oh,  muse  of  mine,  let  not  my  lyre  sound 
To  such  vain  pipings  ;  grant  its  varied  moods 
A  touch  of  tears  —  a  voice  of  nature's  own 
As  lucid,  and  as  free  and  undefiled  ; 
And  give  it  steel,  and  iron,  like  the  strength 
Of  clashing  sabres  and  of  bayonets 
And  black-mouthed  cannon,  wreathed  in  thun 
der  clouds, 

Whose  music  rolls  a  menace  o'er  the  skies 
Where  earth  is  shaking  to  the  tread  of  Mars. 


149 


THE   SEVENTH    DAUGHTER. 

THE  seventh  daughter  paced  the  shore 
Nor  star  nor  moon  was  there  in  heaven, 

But  boom  of  breakers  and  the  roar 
Of  thunder,  and  the  lightning's  levin, 

The  sea  leaped  up  and  landward  bore 
And  she  was  last  was  born  of  seven. 

The  dank  grass  bent  beneath  the  blast 
And  far  and  near  were  whitecaps  flying, 

And  storm-blown  sea-birds  as  they  passed 
Discordant  through  the  night  were  crying, 

And  on  the  reefs  with  broken  mast 

A  shattered  ship,  broached-to,  was  lying. 

Now  bring  the  spell  of  weaving  hands 
Of  weaving  hands  and  woven  paces, 

Of  magic,  and  air-plaited  strands 

Of  wimpled  locks  round  elvish  faces, 

While  down  along  the  dripping  sands 
The  white-maned  surf-host  romps  and  races. 


A  rocket  lights  the  sullen  skies 

With  one  red  flash  of  flame-elation,          « 
And  slowly  o'er  the  billows  dies 

A  cannon's  dull  reverberation, 
With  never  ending  fall  and  rise 

Of  wave  on  wave  in  swift  rotation. 

They  lash  the  women  to  the  spars 

The  rough  reef  grinds,  the  good  ship  lunges, 
Above  the  bars  and  round  the  bars 

The  ocean  gathers,  rises,  plunges, 
And  through  the  crushed  and  splintered  scars 

The  green  brine  soaks  as  into  sponges. 

Go  get  you  gone  of  seventh  birth 

Your  arts  and  spells  no  respite  gave  them, 

Nor  prayers  indeed  were  aught  of  worth 
Since  that  the  deep-sea  forces  crave  them, 

And  naught  of  all  that  rests  on  earth 
Or  sits  above  has  power  to  save  them. 

The  seventh  daughter  paced  the  shore 
The  dawn  had  come,  the  storm  was  riven, 

Six  sisters  had  she  now  no  more 

Six  souls  had  passed  to  hell  or  heaven, 

The  sea  was  level  as  a  floor 

And  she  was  last  was  born  of  seven. 


WHITE   CAPS. 

OVER  the  cool  green  wall  of  waves  advancing 

Glistens  a  crested  line  of  feathery  foam, 
Till  along  the  beach  the  billows  scatter,  glanc 
ing 

A  mist  of  spray  as  over  the  waters  comb  ; 
Then  fades  the  white-capped  crest  all  slowly 

sinking 

Where  silent,  shadowy  sands  are  ever  drinking, 
drinking. 

Into  the  sunlight's  gleam  a  gray  gull  flashes 

Into  the  salt-sea  air  on  buoyant  wing, 
High  above  where  the  prisoned  sea  incessant 

dashes  — 

Poises  just  for  an  instant,  wavering, 
Veers  to  the  right,  and  then  its  vague  flight 

shifting, 

Falls  to  the  waves,  and  with  the  waves  goes 
drifting,  drifting. 


Over  the  sea,  miles  out,  a  ship  is  riding, 
Threading  the  ocean  paths  with  oaken  keel, 

And   under  her  bow  the   baffled   waves  are 

sliding 
As  over  her  sails  the  rising  breezes  steal, 

And  in  her  wake  a  foamy  track  is  lying 

As  northward  far  she  sails  still  flying,  flying. 

And  in  my  heart  and  soul  a  voice  is  ringing 
Like  Circe's  voice,  and  saying  unto  me, 

I  am  a  voice  immortal  ever  singing 
The  glory  and  the  sorrow  of  the  sea  ; 

Whose  waves  like  human  feet  press  on  forever, 

Whose  soul  like  human  souls  is  happy  never, 
never. 


'53 


THE    FLYING   DUTCHMAN. 

WHERE  the  tide  crept  up  in  a  stealthy  way 
By  the  reefs  and  hollows  of  Table  Bay, 
The  dwellings  rude  of  the  Dutchmen  lay. 

And  the  night  approached  with  a  sign  of  storm 
For  the  winds  blew  cold  and  the  winds  blew 

warm, 
And  cloud-rack  high  in  the  skies  would  form. 

And  far  to  the  right  in  the  lone  cape's  lee 
A  vessel  surged  in  the  wallowing  sea, 
And  the  white-caps  gleamed  and  the  winds  rose 
free. 

'T  was  the  brig  that  carried  the  Holland  mails 
Through  the  summer's  calm  or  the  winter  gales 
And  her  pennant  streamed  o'er  her  tawny  sails. 

A  giant  she  was  in  a  giant's  grip 
For  the  dark  seas  clung  to  the  struggling  ship 
And  the  salt  brine  down  from  the  shrouds  did 
drip. 

'54 


And  her  sails  were  wet  with  the  glancing  spray, 
As  she  rose  through  the  gathering  darkness 

gray, 
And  her  bow  was  headed  for  Table  Bay. 

But  the  sea  beat  back  with  a  sodden  force 
The  Dutchman's  ship  in  its  wandering  course, 
And  the  thunder's  mockery  bellowed  hoarse. 

And  a  woman  waited  beside  a  tree 

In  the  moan  of  the  winds  and  the  branches 

dree, 
For  a  letter  to  come  that  night  by  sea. 

Then  shouted  the  mate  to  the  skipper  there 
"Turn  back,"  so  sounded  his  trumpet's  blare, 
"  Or  our  seams  will  split  and  our  masts  stand 
bare." 

But  Vanderdecken  drew  his  blade 

And  the  steely  sheen  that  its  flashing  made 

Struck  light  from  the  all-surrounding  shade, 

And  his  anger  stood  in  his  bristling  hair, 
While  his  furious  sword-stroke  smote  the  air, 
As  he  stood  alone  in  defiance  there. 

And  he  swore  to  weather  the  stubborn  gale 
With  its  rattling  volleys  of  icy  hail, 
If  it  stripped  from  the  masts  each  tattered  sail. 
'55 


And  to  beat  around  for  that  very  bay, 

And  where  was  the  one  who  could  say  him 

nay  — 
"  By  God  !  if  he  sailed  till  the  judgment  day." 

Then  the  mist  grew  dense  and  the  lightning 

flashed 

And  a  red  bolt  down  on  the  tree-top  crashed 
Where  a  woman  stood  by  the  shore,  sea-lashed. 

And  the  thunder  tolled  in  the  blackening  clouds 
And  the  waves  swept  by  in  hurrying  crowds, 
And  a  wan  light  paled  in  the  creaking  shrouds. 

While  a  scream  came  by  from  the  far-off  shore, 
That  was  hushed  and  drowned  by  the  mad 

waves'  roar, 
And  the  vessel  passed  and  was  seen  no  more. 

And  now  on  that  self-same  fateful  night 

If  the  seas  be  calm  and  the  skies  are  bright, 

The  ocean  giveth  a  mystic  sight. 

For  a  shadow-ship  in  a  shadow-frame 

Looms  out  at  twelve  through  the  moonlight's 

flame 

Passing  as  suddenly  as  it  came. 
156 


And  a  whisper  thrills  through  the   salt-sweet 

breeze, 

While  a  heart-throb  stirs  in  the  moving  seas, 
And  the  tide  fast  out  to  the  ocean  flees. 

And  a  fine  wind  stirs  in  the  tree-top  high 
That  ghostly  stands  in  the  starlit  sky. 
And  a  sound  wells  up  like  a  woman's  sigh. 

But  when  on  that  night  the  clouds  turn  black 
And  the  huge  waves  follow  the  storm-king's 

track 
And  the  skies  are  heavy  with  tempest-wrack, 

Why  then  is  seen,  as  a  spectre  gray 

Mid  the  shimmering  mist  and  lightning-play 

A  vessel  headed  for  Table  Bay. 

And  the  ship,  like  a  lover,  keeps  her  troth 
To  her  skipper's  pledge  —  't  was  a  pledge  for 

both  — 
And  the  wild  winds  echo  the  Dutchman's  oath, 

And  a  wraith  waits  there  by  the  haunted  tree 
While  the  storm  wails  on,  and  the  wind  blows 

free, 
For  a  letter  which  comes  not  in  from  sea. 


COLOMBO. 

ONE  day  in  August,  fourteen  ninety-two, 
So  long  ago  in  an  old  port  of  Spain, 
Where  reared  the  skies  an  arc  of  deepest  blue 
And  summer's  glories  had  begun  to  wane, 
In  Ferdinand  and  Isabella's  reign 
Three  ships  sailed  out  upon  a  fateful  quest, 
Borne  far  across  upon  a  watery  plain 
By  blandest  winds  against  their  rigging  pressed, 
The   creaking   spars    outspread,    and    prows 
toward  the  west. 

And  Palos  in  the  distance  faded  out 
The  moss-grown  quay,  the  grayish  olive  trees, 
And  changing  groups  that  slowly  moved  about 
Seen  dimly  o'er  the  track  of  sprayey  seas, 
While  churches,  masts,  and  towers,  even  these 
At  length  were  gone  and  only  echoing  bells 
Borne  faintly  on  the  pinions  of  the  breeze, 
Came  stealing  softly  o'er  the  heaving  swells 
And  fell  upon  their  hearts  like  sound  of  ghostly 
knells. 

158 


And  all  before  was  a  lone  waste  immense 

Far  seas  unsounded  and  as  yet  unsailed, 

And  shrouded  in  a  mystery  as  dense 

As  fabled  Isis  in  her  temple  veiled, 

Yet  fared  they  forth  by  storm  and  wave  assailed 

While  stretched  the  glistening  canvas  as  they 

passed, 

And  up  aloft  the  listless  pennants  trailed, 
When  dreamy  calm   the  deep   green   waters 

glassed 
And  white,    still   clouds  above   in   the   clear 

heavens  massed. 

Gone  was  the  sailor's  song  and  cheery  smile 
As  steadily  they  drifted  day  by  day, 
For  journeying  on,  each  home-dividing  mile- 
Seemed  as  a  hand  that  put  them  far  away  ;. 
For  superstition  held  them  in  its  sway  ; 
And  ignorance,  and  passion,  but  the  man 
Whose  granite  will  was  mightier  than  they 
Still  held  his  carved,  black  bowsprit  in  the  van; 
And   under  stars  and  sun  the  restless  surge 
would  scan. 

For  he  was  oak  and  iron,  and  he  stood 
Among  them  like  a  lion  while  his  air 
Had  all  the  stern,  unbending  hardihood 
Of  those  who  have  done  battle  with  despair  ; 
'59 


Long  had  he  known  of  penury  and  care, 
Neglect  and  disappointment  and  disdain 
Yet  kept  the  courage  that  could  do  and  dare, 
And  dauntless  here  through  tempest,  wind  and 

rain 
Bore  westward  with  his  sullen  crews  across 

the  main. 

And  as  they  sailed  sharp  cloud  peaks  were  un 
furled 

In  airy  space  where  swam  the  dying  sun, 
And  seemed  reflections  of  their  promised  world 
As  rose  the  flame  tipped  summits,  one  by  one, 
And  then  would  fall  the  twilight's  mantle  dun 
With  twinkling  stars  and  weirdest  moonlight 

glow, 
Where  broken  clouds  along  the  skies  would 

run 
And   night-winds  through  the  straining  ropes 

would  blow 

While  lapped  and  lapped  again  the  waters  far 
below. 

And  gleamed  the  myriad  foam-streaks  in  their 

wake 
Pale,  feathery  spume,  by  wandering  sea-birds 

crossed, 

160 


That  melted  as  would  melt  a  fragile  flake, 
Of  winter  snows  when  in  an  eddy  tossed, 
And  sometimes  level  seas  by  sunlight  glossed 
Basked  idly  where  the  idle  vessels  lay 
Within  an  ocean-desert's  vagueness  lost, 
While  westward  still  stood  out  the  vasty  gray 
That  changed  not,  save  for  weary  change  of 
night  and  day. 

But  on  a  sudden  instant  to  their  sight 
The  western  world,  a  mystery  no  more, 
In  emerald  tints  of  freshest  verdure  bright 
Rose  through  the  mist,  the  long,  long-looked 

for  shore  ; 

Past  the  hoarse  tumult  of  the  breakers'  roar 
Where  tufted  palms  shot  upward  from  the  grass 
Casting  their  shade  the  shell-strewn  beaches 

o'er 

While  glittered  fiery  sands  like  burnished  brass, 
With  swinging  flowery  vines  by  pool  and  dank 

morass. 


I  sing  the  gallant  spirit  of  the  man 
Colombo,  he  of  Genoa,  who  drave 
His  carved  and  blackened  bowsprit  in  the  van 
Of  that  wild  journey  o'er  the  trackless  wave, 
ii  161 


To  find  a  continent  or  fill  a  grave, 
Under  the  shadows  of  the  western  skies  ; 
Who  all  his  years  to  one  grand  purpose  gave, 
And  looking  out  from  his  high  soul's  surmise 
Saw  with  a  prophet's  gaze  though  through  a 
dreamer's  eyes. 


162 


POLPERRO. 

POLPERRO  —  it  lies  where  the  Cornish  Cliffs 

whiten 
Sheer  heights  that  flash  up  in  the  light  of 

the  sun, 
And  below  each  grave  peak  that  looms  huge 

as  a  Titan 
The  tides  and  the  tidal  sweep  shimmering 

run, 
The  tides  and  the  tidal    sweep,  green,  briny 

water 
That  pours  over  sands  where  the  singing 

shells  be, 
The  gray,  pallid   sands  that  turn  hotter  and 

hotter 

In  the  grasp  of  the  sun  by  the  shores  of 
the  sea. 

Oh  I  sun,  there  are  depths  where  thy  lambent 

rays  never 

Strike,  quiver  or  bask  over  lustreless  sands, 
163 


Where  the  light  and  the  shade  shall  not  meet, 

shall  not  sever 
As  the  yearning  of  hearts  or  unclasping  of 

hands  ; 
Where  the  gulf-stream  glides  onward  through 

emerald  crystal 
And    ripple    there    is    none    to    ruffle   the 

deep, 
Where  not  even  the  wail  of  the  storm-laden 

mistral 

Disturbs    the    repose    of    the  waters    that 
sleep. 

And    forever    and    ever   the    lone   sail    shall 

glisten 
And   forever  the   fishers   go    down  to  the 

sea, 
And   the  drear  nights   shall  come  when   the 

fisher-wives  listen 
(The  light  on  the  sill  and  the  wind  in  the 

tree.) 
The  light  on  the  sill  and  the  stars  in  the  hazes 

That  leadenly  drift  in  the  lowering  skies, 
While  the  salt  spray  that  beats  on  each  pale 

face  that  gazes 

Sharp,  stingingly  sharp  through  the  wind- 
spaces  flies. 

164 


And  or  ever  or  never  the  fisher  finds  haven 
And  the  tear  will  be  dried  by  the  kiss  on 

the  lips, 
The  ripe,  ruddy  lips  where  the  prayer-words 

were  graven 

In  the  darkness  and  storm  for  the  weather 
worn  ships ; 
And  a  child  will   croon   low  where  a   south 

wind  shall  blow  you 

A  sweet  breath  of  daisies  from  far  inland  lea, 
And  a  long  shred  of  sunlight  shall  smilingly 

throw  you 
A  kiss  from  the  sea. 


165 


HAUD   A  WEE   MY   WILLIE. 

LIGHT  o'  heart  and  careless  hand 
Siller  nane  nor  yet  o'  land 
Save  the  wee  bit  beach  o'  sand 
Haud  a  wee  my  Willie. 

Wha  shall  tak'  his  empty  seat 
In  the  life-boat,  thro'  the  weet, 
When  the  ragin'  billows  beat, 
Haud  a  wee  my  Willie. 

Never  he  did  danger  shirk 
Light  o'  day  or  glow  Yin'  mirk, 
Bared  his  breast  to  face  the  work, 
Haud  a  wee  my  Willie. 

Foremost  hand  to  launch  the  boat 
Knotted  kerchief  at  his  throat, 
Whis'lin'  like  the  plover's  note, 
Haud  a  wee  my  Willie. 


Fathoms  deep  he  's  lyin'  now 
Sea-weed  matted  on  his  brow, 
Where  the  winds  the  waters  plough, 
Haud  a  wee  my  Willie. 

Nane  to  heed  o'  joy  or  bliss 
Nane  to  ken  nor  yet  to  miss, 
Mither's  warnin'  —  sweetheart's  kiss, 
Haud  a  wee  my  Willie. 


167 


OFF    PELICAN    POINT. 

STRAIGHT  out  from  the  rocky  headland, 

I  swim  in  the  soft  moonshine, 
The  air  is  heavy  with  shadows 

The  shadows  are  drenched  in  brine, 
And  the  salt-sweet  savor  and  flavor 

Thrills  keen  through  my  veins  like  wine. 

The  chant  of  the  shoreward  breakers 

Beats  up  to  the  cliffs  above, 
As  restless  in  rhyme  and  rhythm 

As  the  tide  it  whispers  of, 
And  the  sea-weed  folds  me  and  holds  me 

Like  the  arms  of  her  I  love. 

The  stark  waves  break  at  my  shoulder 

The  spray  is  tart  on  my  lips, 
A  long  swell  looms  in  the  foreground 

Then  back  to  the  rearward  slips, 
And  the  echoings  hollow  follow 

Where  the  great  sea  rolls  and  dips. 
168 


Low  plaints  of  the  pulsing  water 
Faint  chords  from  the  under  sea, 

Cool  winds  through  the  strands  of  starlight 
That  glitter  away  to  lee, 

And  the  twilight  ringing  and  singing 
Are  the  sounds  that  come  to  me. 

The  track  of  the  floating  moonlight 

Half  beckoning  lures  me  on, 
As  though  it  led  to  the  harbor 

Where  the  home-bound  souls  have  gone, 
And  its  ghostly  glimmer  and  shimmer 

As  a  dead  man's  face  is  wan. 

I  lie  on  the  sad  sea's  bosom 
Or  with  swift  stroke  cleaving  pass, 

Where  foam-crests  tipped  by  the  star-shine 
Stand  high  in  a  fluffy  mass, 

And  the  billows  down  under  sunder 
Over  depths  as  green  as  glass. 

With  stars  in  the  skies  to  lend  me 
Far  glints  from  a  world  divine, 

I  toss  as  a  careless  swimmer 
And  the  deep-sea  joys  are  mine, 

Forgetting  to  borrow  sorrow 
Throat-deep  in  the  buoyant  brine. 
169 


The  boom  of  the  surf  behind  me 
And  the  crag's  sharp  lines  above, 

Fade  out  and  in  God's  wide  heaven 
Peace  broods  as  a  nesting  dove, 

And  the  waters  fold  me  and  hold  me 
Like  the  arms  of  her  I  love. 


170 


OFF   GEORGES   BANKS. 

OFF  Georges  Banks  the  sun  went  down 

In  crimson  splendor  gleaming, 
As  past  the  bar  a  vessel  sailed 

With  graceful  pennant  streaming  ; 
And  in  her  wake  across  the  blue 
A  stormy  petrel  flew. 

Then  from  their  ambush  crept  the  winds 
To  wake  each  sleeping  billow  ; 

And  in  their  grasp  the  strong  masts  shook 
Like  slender  twigs  of  willow, 

And  struck  by  whips  of  foaming  spray 

The  good  ship  bore  away. 

Through  darkling  clouds  the  lightning  clove 

A  jagged  path  asunder  ; 
And  in  the  gloomy  vaults  o'erhead 

Deep  rolled  the  sullen  thunder  ; 
While  high  above  unnumbered  graves 
Up  leaped  the  hungry  waves. 
171 


Gray  rose  the  dawn  ;  and  dreamily, 
As  though  'twixt  sleep  and  waking ; 

Low  lapped  the  waves,  as  on  the  rocks 
Their  long,  green  lines  were  breaking ; 

And  in  the  changing  sky  afar, 

Paled  out  a  single  star. 

Then  seaward  from  the  lonely  reefs 

The  sun  came  up  all  slowly, 
His  first  beams  touched  a  white,  white  face, 

Among  the  seaweed  lowly, 
A  dead  face  lashed  to  floating  planks 
Drowned  there  —  off  Georges  Banks. 


172 


ADRIFT. 

A  FRAIL,  rude  raft,  wave-tossed  on  midnight 

seas  ; 
Three  shadow-spars  across  the  moon's  gold 

glow  — 

A  ragged  shape  that  rose  from  bended  knees 
And  cried  "  Sail  ho  1 " 


173 


THE   NORTHWEST   PASSAGE. 

I. 

WHERE  Arctic  currents  curl  and  flash 
And  death  prowls  over  wastes  of  snow, 

Where  giant  icebergs  sway  and  crash 
Into  the  chilling  depths  below, 

The  Northwest  passage  spectral  stands 

And  beckons  men  to  Polar  lands. 


II. 

A  ruined  hut,  an  empty  chest ; 

A  blackened  remnant  of  a  sail ;  — 
A  tattered  record  tells  the  rest 

While  northern  winds  in  dirges  wail ; 
And  from  the  icebergs  cold  tears  drip 
Upon  a  crushed  and  rotting  ship. 


A    BOTTLE. 

I. 

IN  a  cabin  locker  for  many  a  year 

A  bottle  lay  ; 
And  whether  the  weather  was  fair  and  clear 

Or  whether  the  Ocean  was  rough  and  gray, 
The  bottle  had  nothing  to  care  or  fear ; 
Yet  the  ship  was  an  iron  oaken  mass 
And  the  other  was  nothing  but  brittle  glass  — 
A  bottle. 

II. 

Where  the  billows  rose  highest  the  storm-king 

flew 

Over  the  sea ; 
And  the  waters  foamed  and  the  wild  winds 

blew, 
While  the  mad  waves  tossed  in  a  whirling 

glee, 

And  all  that  was  left  of  a  ship  and  crew 
Came,  bringing  its  message  with  silent  lips 
Of  the  perils  of  those  who  go  down  in  ships  — 
A  bottle. 


MY  CHAPTER. 


THE   BURNING  OF   THE  SHIPS. 

I. 

WHERE  pillars  stood  with  roses  garlanded 
And  rhythmic  music,  rising,  rose  and  fell, 
And  many  faces  turned  enquiring  gaze 
A  man  and  woman  met. 

Like  ship  to  ship 

That  crash  together  and  recoil  and  drift 
In  watery  wastes  and  darkness,  so  their  souls 
Felt  the  rebound  ;  and  lifting  up  their  eyes 
O'ershadowed  like  a  hand  with  wonderment, 
Each  looked  across,  and  in  their  thoughts  arose 
The  inward  spoken  question,  "  Who  art  thou  ?" 

Then  hand  met  hand  and  evermore  the  sense 
Grew,  as  a  rose  of  that  companionship 
Which  flaunts  the  petal  while  it  hides  the  thorn  ; 
For  fate,  which  found  them  in  that  one  first 

glance, 

Held  them  apart,  and,  like  the  Barmecide 
Brought  nothing  and  yet  bade  them  eat  and 

drink ; 

And  heart  to  heart  came  following  afterwards 
As  bud  will  follow  blossom. 
179 


This  is  true  — 

Each  man  and  woman  has  a  counterpart, 
A  twin-born  soul  which  wanders  up  and  down 
Seeking  its  mate  ;  and  whether  such  have  been 
As  comrades  in  another  world  than  this, 
I  know  not ;  ask  the  Sibyl,  but  I  know 
These  two  were  for  each  other. 

So  days  went  by  to  blend  with  starry  nights 

And  midnights  paled  and  trembled  into  dawn, 

And  gathering  fast  with  still  intensity 

As  snows  come  crowding  to  an  avalanche, 

So  all  their  hopes  came  silently  and  sure 

To  touch,  and  cross,  and  mingle,  and  be  one. 

There  may  be  much  in  silence  ;  most  of  all 
The  silence  of  strong  natures  ;  as  an  oak 
Half  century  old  will  breathless  stand  and  wait 
Through  listless  summer  days,  nor  move  a  leaf 
Until  the  storm  awakes  it,  when  it  flings 
Rough  branches  to  the  winds  and  every  root 
And  limb  and  fibre  quivers  in  the  gale. 

So  was  it  with  these  two.     No  word  of  love 
Had  left  their  lips,  and  comrades   they  had 

seemed 

By  many  a  stretch  of  sombre  woods  and  sere, 
1 80 


By  many  a  mile  of  wave-encircled  sands, 
By  many  a  field  of  swallow-haunted  grass  ; 
And  they  had  walked  the  city  streets  and  ways 
And  made  no  sign,  and  heard  no  warning  voice. 

II. 

There  was  a  night,  I  think  a  night  of  nights, 
Dim  lit  with  little  stars,  there  was  no  moon, 
Wild  winds  across  the  darkness,  and  a  note 
Of  Neptune's  horn  beside  the  lonely  sea ; 
And  these  twain  passed  together,  and  the  flight 
Of  breezes  riotous  and  whirling  leaves 
Went  northward  high  above  them,  and  a  glint 
Of  cloudy  starlight  flecked  the  distant  sky. 

And  somewhere  in  the  lapses  of  the  storm, 
Somewhere  within  the  hollows  of  the  dusk 
A  sudden  silence  blossomed,  and  these  two 
Solving  the  riddle  of  their  lives  at  last 
Turned,  with  a  wordless  message  on  the  lips, 
And  like  to  those  who  have  been  parted  long 
Clung  fast  to  one  another  and  were  glad. 

There  was  no  speech  nor  promises  nor  tears 
But  soul  to  soul  their  higher  being  met 
As  current  meets  with  current  where  a  stream 
Gains  in  its  height  and  steadily  flows  on. 
181 


Nor  was  there  doubt  nor  lesser  sense  of  fear, 
And  star  by  star  the  constellations  came 
To  sleep  along  the  waters  ;  and  the  leaves, 
The  dry,  dead  leaves  that  lay  across  their  path 
Rustled  and  stirred,  and  overhead  the  trees 
Made  mighty  moan  because  it  came  to  pass. 

And  yet,  and  yet  if  custom  had  her  say 
Or  sterner  still  that  harsh  dame  Precedent, 
Doubt  not  these  two  did  wrongly  ;  for  the  world 
Sees,  spectacled  with  envy  and  distrust, 
And  ever  looking  downward  ; 

But  indeed, 
Love's  light  keeps  bright  the  windows  of  the 

soul 

And  these  knew  neither  evil  nor  dismay, 
Because,  forsooth,  a  law  ruled  so  and  so 
A  custom  this,  a  principle  thus  much, 
But  simply  said,  "  Thy  hand  and  mine  inwove 
There  is  not  that  which  comes  'twixt  me  and 

thee." 


I  question  not  of  usage  nor  of  creed, 
And  care  not,  lacking  that  subservience 
Which  doffs  the  hat  to  mediocrity 
And  worships  still  the  outward  shell  of  things  ; 
182 


For  there  are  times  and  trials  when  the  mind 
Can  reckon  not  by  means  of  rule  and  rote, 
But  with  its  present  doubts  enstranded  round 
Must  cut  the  gordian  knot  and  doubt  no  more. 

And  so  they  made  their  compact  and  were  wise, 
And  burned  the  ships  behind  them  as   they 

passed 
Like  those  old  hardy   Norsemen  when  they 

came 
To   shores  unconquered,  and   thus   new  and 

strange. 

And  hand  in  hand  they  wandered  on  and  on 
And  heart  with  heart  they  vanished  from  my 

sight, 

And  soul  to  soul  I  doubt  not  now  they  stand 
Upon  the  heights  that  further  inland  lie, 
Those    happier    heights,    free-stretching    and 

remote 

Where  bloom  the  lilies  of  the  dawn  and  shine 
Midsummer  suns  on  grassy  slopes  and  green. 


183 


MY    LADY   OF    LILIES. 

SHE  with  her  serious  moods,  and  her  moods 

fantastic, 
Whimsical,  various,  sad  and  glad,  a  woman, 

in  just  a  word, 
Now  with  a  tender  tone  and  again  with  a  tone 

sarcastic 
By  passion  and  impulse  swayed  as  the  deep 

sea  depths  are  stirred, 
But  I  love  her,  and  under  her  touch  my  soul 

grows  plastic 

And  just  to  think  of  her  stills  my  heart  and 
my  eyes  are  blurred. 

For  God's  best  work  after  all  at  the  best  was 

woman 
Judge  her  and  test  her  and  note  her  faults, 

no  doubt  you  can, 
But  indeed,  as  the  world's  page  reads  she  is 

yet  more  human 

Loving  and  faithful  and  more  forgiving  than 
lesser  man, 

184 


And  ever  since  Adam  the  natures  of  men  were 

common, 

Mere  quartz,  where  as  veined  and  virgin 
gold  her  finer  nature  ran. 

Oh  !    Lady  of  Lilies,   and   mine  by  the  one 

word  spoken 
Mine  when  the  gathering  snowflakes  fall  or 

when  roses  bloom, 

Mine  by  the  fiat  of  fate  and  the  silence  broken 
Mine  through  the  days,  or  nights  that  the 

northern  lights  illume, 
I  wear  the  thorns,    I   kiss  the  flowers,  and 

accept  the  token 

And  her  face  is  the  one  bright  thread  in  my 
life's  dull  loom. 

The  seasons  come  and  they  go  with  the  dead 

leaves  falling 
The   springtide   sinks   in  the  summer,  the 

blossom  forsakes  the  bee, 
And  autumn  comes  with  a  purple  wand  the 

woods  enthralling 
Till  the  winds  from  the  north  find  harbor  by 

the  shores  of  a  wintry  sea, 
But  season  and  season  and  change  on  change 

one  voice  is  calling 

And  an  echo  catches  it  up  and  brings  it  back 
to  me. 

185 


I  go  my  way  and  the  way  is  steep,  the  way  is 

lonely 
But  the  breeze  blows  fresh  and  the  long 

long  miles  can  never  tire, 
And  the  erstwhile  shadows  that  rose,  in  the 

dust  are  lying  pronely 
While  my  hands  are  stretched  to  her  in  a 

keen,  untold  desire, 

Oh  I  Lady  of  mine,  my  own,  whose  love  re 
deems  me  only, 

Passionate,  pure  as  the  coldest  star,  and  with 
heart  of  fire. 


186 


KISMET. 

I  TOSSED  her  picture  on  the  coals 

Against  the  black-log  glowing  red, 
And  snaky  flames,  Medusa-like 

Coiled  and  uncoiled  about  her  head, 
And  lo  I  the  insensate  card-board  lived 

The  fire  had  set  its  spirit  free, 
And  lovingly  her  fair  white  arms 

Rose  up  to  clasp  and  cling  to  me. 


And  when  the  picture  blackened  lay, 

Upon  its  film  a  profile  true. 
Unrolled  in  hazy  silhouette 

Then  darted  up  the  chimney's  flue, 
And  where  above  the  ashes  gray 

A  blue  flame-bubble  seemed  to  float, 
I  straightway  saw  her  face  again 

A  bunch  of  violets  at  her  throat. 
187 


Oh  !  nevermore  may  I  be  freed 

From  this  her  presence  ;  't  is  too  late. 
"  Bismillah  I  "  so  the  Moslem  cries 

And  I  the  Christian,  echo  "  Fate  1  " 
I  raze  her  image  from  my  heart 

I  put  away  her  voice  —  and  she  — 
Comes  back  to  where  our  pathways  met 

And  walks  the  journey's  end  with  me. 


188 


DE    MI    AMIGO. 

FOR  you  the  fig  and  olive  shine 

The  green  leaf  spreads  and  waters  run, 
With  scarlet  banners  of  the  vine 

And  gleam  of  lizard  in  the  sun, 
For  me  the  leafless  tree  and  black, 

The  iron  weight  of  winter's  ire, 
And  some  cold  meteor's  baleful  track 

That  sails  beyond  a  wake  of  fire. 


To  you  shall  come  the  glint  of  seas 

Blue-dappled  in  the  glance  of  dawn, 
With  threads  of  many  a  languid  breeze 

Through    warp    and    woof    of    leaf-looms 

drawn, 
To  me  December's  steely  mail 

That  armors  all  the  lakes  and  streams, 
And  far-off  skies  that  are  as  pale 

As  some  dead  spring  time's  crocus  gleams. 
189 


What  I  will  you  tempt  me  with  the  thought 

Of  living  summer,  I  who  stand 
Where  every  sunbeam  glistens  taut 

Ice-girdled  in  this  northern  land  ? 
Nor  leaf,  nor  bud,  nor  blossom's  glow 

Hath  'scaped  the  storm  king's  icy  clutch, 
To  lend  above  the  barren  snow 

Some  hope  or  hint  of  April's  touch. 


Your  phrase  of  soft  Castilian  sung 

Shall  lull  me  not  to  dreamful  sleep 
The  hammer-stroke  of  Saxon  tongue 

Alone  can  pass  the  guard  I  keep ; 
The  caballero's  old  guitar 

In  southern  clime  sounds  sweet  and  low, 
But  Hengist's  song  was  aye  for  war  — 

The  bill,  the  axe,  the  bended  bow. 


I  yield  the  charm  of  gentler  speech 

For  most  melodious  interlude, 
Yet  harsher  accents  still  may  teach 

A  nobler  meaning,  grant  it  rude  ; 
For  who  that  hears  a  bugle  call 

Shall  tell  of  music  more  divine  ; 
A  Circe's  voice,  enchanting  all, 

Made  heroes  level  with  the  swine. 
190 


And  for  the  light  of  tropic  noon, 

The  shrill  cicala  in  the  grass, 
The  full,  slow  splendor  of  the  moon, 

Where  nights  like  slippered  shadows  pass, 
I  send  you  word  of  frozen  lanes 

Where  clear  is  etched  the  horseshoe  dint, 
And  frost-lace  on  the  window-panes 

And  fields  as  hard  as  mountain  flint. 

Yet  for  your  friendship  and  its  sign  — 

The  message  sent —  I  hold  them  dear 
In  sun  and  snow,  in  rain  or  shine, 

Or  whether  skies  be  dark  or  clear, 
And  somewhere  out  from  fancy  sprung 

I  keep,  though  wide  our  paths  apart 
A  Saxon  word  upon  my  tongue, 

Its  Spanish  echo  in  my  heart. 


191 


BY  OUR   AIN    FIRESIDE. 

Tis  we  twain,  'tis  we  twain 

By  our  ain  fireside  ; 

Adown  the  window  glides  the  rain 

The  embers  in  the  ashes  hide, 

'Tis  we  twain,  we  twain, 

By  our  ain  fireside. 

I  know  not  why  it  seems  to  be 

So  much  to  watch  the  coals  with  thee, 

So  much  to  sit  here  hand  in  hand 

Near  smoke-wreath  dim  and  smouldering  brand 

'Tis  we  twain, 

By  our  ain  fireside. 

Tis  we  twain,  'tis  we  twain 

By  our  ain  fireside  ; 

Swart  shadows  flit  across  the  pane 

And  you  and  I  in  silence  bide  ; 

'Tis  we  twain,  we  twain, 

By  our  ain  fireside. 

192 


To-night  this  hearth-glow  leaping  thus 
Shall  make  a  merry  jest  for  us, 
For  who  so  far  apart  as  we  ? 
And  yet  —  repeat  it  after  me, 
'Tis  we  twain, 

By  our  ain  fireside. 

'T  is  we  twain,  't  is  we  twain 
By  our  ain  fireside  ; 
I  smile  on  you,  and  mocking  feign 
That  you  my  sweetheart  are  or  bride, 
'Tis  we  twain,  we  twain, 
By  our  ain  fireside. 


13  '93 


IN    A    MISSOURI    ORCHARD. 

THIS  is  the  path  and  this  the  tree 
Whose  blossoms  drink  the  air  of  May, 
And  there  the  self-same  meadowy  sea 
In  undulations  rolls  away  ; 
And  here  an  ancient  granite  stone 
Is  in  the  grasses  sinking  low, 
No  changes  now  to  me  are  shown 
Save  that  one  haunting  change  alone  — 
I  miss  the  face  I  used  to  know. 

I  see  as  through  a  mist  of  tears 
The  summer  of  a  golden  past, 
And  dark  across  the  day  appears 
The  shadow  that  old  time  has  cast ; 
Yet,  hark  1  the  same  blithe  cricket  sings 
Down  in  the  leaf-beds  hiding  low, 
I  hear  the  brush  of  passing  wings 
And  sounds  of  once  familiar  things 
But  miss  the  voice  I  used  to  know. 
194 


The  breeze  upon  the  languorous  air 
Lifts  the  lithe  branches  one  by  one, 
And  I  and  silence,  silent  share 
The  glowing  semi-southern  sun, 
I  see  the  green  Missouri  hills 
I  feel  the  blossoms  round  me  blow, 
And  all  my  heart  with  longing  fills 
As  memory  through  my  being  thrills 
A  hand-clasp  that  I  used  to  know. 

The  house  upon  the  rise  that  sweeps 
A  curve  of  emerald  to  the  west, 
Is  still  the  same,  and  dumbly  keeps 
Its  place  like  some  deserted  nest. 
Oh  !  hopes,  that  down  the  long  days  fled 
Oh  !  blossoms  with  your  hearts  of  snow, 
Oh  I  death  when  all  save  me  are  dead, 
Would  fate  had  taken  me  instead, 
And  not  the  one  I  used  to  know. 


A   SANDAL-WOOD    FAN. 

THE  fan  of  silk  and  sandal-wood 
That  lay  within  her  shapely  hand, 
Moved  light  as  any  cloud-film  could 
That  idly  sails  o'er  sea  and  land, 
While  some  faint  breath  from  foreign  strand 
Rose,  languorous,  as  it  curved  and  swayed, 
Spiced  scents  of  burning  Samarcand 
Telling  of  tropic  sun  and  shade. 

The  roses  at  her  supple  throat 
Were  opening  to  their  coming  close 
With  those  deep  tinges  which  denote 
The  coloring  of  that  reddest  rose 
The  Jacqueminot  —  while  still  her  fan, 
That  subtle,  sensuous  sandal-wood, 
Had  drugged  me  with  its  drowsy  mood 
Like  poppy-juice  of  Turkestan. 

Her  lips,  her  eyes,  her  tawny  hair, 
Her  dress  of  wavering  velvet  sheen 
With  its  pale  tints  of  olive-green, 
Grew  on  me  like  a  vision  fair  ; 
196 


And  moved  the  fan  as  if  it  seemed 
To  lull  me,  as  I  lulling  dreamed, 
While  all  the  air  was  heavy  there 
With  drifting  fumes  of  odorous  spice 
Which  locked  my  senses  in  a  vise. 

The  actor  strutting  on  the  stage 
I  saw  no  more  —  the  mimic  play 
Had  faded  as  a  moonbeam  may 
Writ  on  a  river's  liquid  page  ; 
I  saw  the  face  of  Helen  then, 
I  heard  the  voice  of  Circe  sweep 
Across  a  stilled,  enchanted  deep, 
Enchaining  there  the  hearts  of  men, 
Who  had  no  more  its  charm  withstood 
Than  I  the  fragrant  sandal-wood. 

And  ever  as  she  moved  her  wrist 

(A  censer,  scattering  sandal-balm) 

I  saw  far  shores  by  warm  waves  kissed, 

And  sculptured  profiles  of  the  palm, 

And  in  my  heart  forebodings  came, 

A  chill  —  a  hope  —  a  doubt  —  a  flame  — 

While  drooped  a  rose's  flowering  hood 

Under  the  pungent  sandal-wood. 


197 


I    FEAR   NO    POWER   A   WOMAN 
WIELDS. 

I  FEAR  no  power  a  woman  wields 
While  I  can  have  the  woods  and  fields, 
With  comradeship  alone  of  gun 
Gray  marsh-wastes  and  the  burning  sun. 

For  aye  the  heart's  most  poignant  pain 
Will  wear  away  'neath  hail  and  rain, 
And  rush  of  winds  through  branches  bare 
With  something  still  to  do  and  dare. 

The  lonely  watch  beside  the  shore 
The  wild-fowl's  cry,  the  sweep  of  oar, 
And  paths  of  virgin  sky  to  scan 
Untrod,  and  so  uncursed  by  man. 

Gramercy,  for  thy  haunting  face, 
Thy  charm  of  voice  and  lissome  grace, 
I  fear  no  power  a  woman  wields 
While  I  can  have  the  woods  and  fields. 
198 


IN    ABSENCE. 

GOD'S  life,  but  I  have  missed  you  ;  in  my  sleep 
My  dreamless  sleep,  stone-silent  and  profound, 
I  think  I  must  have  stretched  my  hands  to  you 
Because  my  waking  hours  do  glean  so  much 
Here,  there,  and  everywhere  that  tells  of  you. 

They  say  that  'twixt  a  man  and  woman  lives 
No  friendship  such  as  that  of  man  for  man. 
"  They  say  "  —  who  says  ?  the  lying  multitude, 
False  prophets  these,  the  followers  of  "  they 

say  " 

And  worthy  not  your  credence,  No  !  nor  that 
Of  any  man's  or  woman's  since  the  flood. 

I  call  you  comrade  in  my  thoughts  of  you 
Though  you  a  woman  be  and  I  a  man, 
Since  by  the  test  of  true  companionship 
You  are  as  meet  to  be  my  friend  sincere, 
As  woman  is  to  woman,  man  to  man  ; 
Have  we  said  aught  of  love,  unless  to  scoff 
At  arch  Dan  Cupid,  that  unlucky  boy 
Who  hides  his  bow  and  arrows  when  we  pass  t 
Nay  !  faith,  for  us  we  '11  have  no  more  of  love 
Saving  the  love  of  steadfast  comradeship. 
199 


A  rose  began  our  friendship  ;  may  a  rose 
Its  emblem  be,  omitting  not  the  thorn  ; 
Green  leaf,  our  hope  —  and  in  the  deepening 

glow 

Of  ruddy  petals  be  its  fervor  based, 
While  for  the  thorns,  let  such  the  record  be 
Of  all  my  imperfection  and  default  ; 
And  if  in  time  the  trust  that  now  endures 
Be  scattered  to  the  seven  winds  that  blow, 
The  life  die  out,  as  petals  fade  and  die  — 
Even  in  that,  our  friendship  is  the  rose. 

I  sometimes  liken  you  unto  a  rose 
A  yellow  rose,  to  suit  your  matchless  hair, 
A  rose  to  match   your  sweetness   and   your 
thorns. 

II. 

If  you  were  here  to  walk  with  me  to-night 
The  rock-built  terrace  where  the  sands  below 
Dip  and  re-dip  their  curves  within  the  waves  — 
If  you  were  here  to  name  with  me  the  stars 
Or  catch  a  glimpse  of  some  illusive  spar 
Limning  its  blackness  on  the  silver  moon  — 
I  had  been  happy,  or  at  least  content, 
And  reckoned  not  of  time  as  one  who  sees 
Unwilling  days  on  drowsy  wing  float  past ; 
200 


But  you  are  gone,  and  this  untiring  town 
That  walks  its  bounds  as  tigers  do  a  cage 
Is  dull  indeed,  for  that  you  are  away. 

You  say  my  friendship  is  but  for  a  day, 

I  '11  grant  you  that  an  you  will  name  to-day, 

I  '11  call  no  imprecations  on  my  head 

With  jargon  of  the  sun  and  moon  and  skies  — 

As  warrant  of  my  own  fidelity, 

But  simply  say,  "  To-day  I  am  your  friend 

To-morrow,  maybe  not,  and  yesterday  — 

Lies  buried  in  the  sunless  crypt  of  time." 

Just  for  a  day  my  faithfulness  shall  last, 
That  day,  to-day,  and  none  more  loyal  friend 
Shall  dream  of  you,  nor  wish  for  your  return  ; 
And  if  to-morrow  brings  a  change  to  us, 
Some  blighting  of  the  rose  of  which  I  spoke  — 
Some  winter  chill  across  the  flowers  of  June  — 
Think  of  me  only  as  a  man  who  kept 
From  sun  till  sun  his  promises  to  you. 

Give  me  my  dues  ;  that  much,  I  '11  take  no  less 
For  resolute  am  I  to  have  mine  own, 
And  if  I  fail,  I  fail  you,  what  of  that  ? 
And  if  you  fail,  you  fail  me,  that  is  all  ; 
There  is  no  more,  regret  is  folly's  garb 
An  act  once  done,  the  fact  alone  remains. 
201 


Yet  here  upon  the  mantel  of  my  room 

Your   picture   waits,  and  what  with   sudden 

rain 

Against  the  window,  and  my  loneliness  — 
Approaching  night,  and  something  undefined, 
I  seem  as  restless  as  the  restless  wind  ; 
And  some  strange  power  doth  impel  me  now 
To  rise  from  irksome  chair  and  unread  book, 
And  say,  as  one  who  speaks  with  heart  at  lip 
"  I  am  an  hungered  for  your  face  again." 


202 


POPPIES. 

OH,  blood-red  torches  of  the  slumbrous  glow 

Light  thou  my  steps  to  Lethe's  dreamy  main  ; 
And  daze  my  senses  that  I  may  not  know 

The  old  dull  throb  of  longing  and  of  pain  ; 
Grant  me  a  respite  from  the  light  of  day 

From  suns  that  shine  and  pallid  rains  that 

weep, 
Touch  but  my  arm  and  lead  me  far  away 

And  seal  my  eyelids  with  a  kiss  of  sleep. 

Oh  !  subtle,  flowery  magic  ;  in  my  stress 

Of  direst  need,  I  call  alone  on  thee, 
Since  slumber's  still,  maternal  tenderness 

More  than  all  else  is  merciful  to  me  ; 
Send  thou  thy  angels  of  the  mournful  eyes 
With  rustling  wings  that   through  the  dark 
ness  sweep 
To  streak  with  dusk  the  erstwhile  reddening 

skies, 

That  I  may  find  oblivion  in  sleep. 
203 


Bring  down  the  draught  that  to  my  trembling 

lips 
Sends  peace  and  rest,  while  all   the  outer 

world 

Is  steeped  and  shadowed  in  a  wide  eclipse 
Where  night's  black  banners  are   on    high 

unfurled  ; 

Bring  woven  paces  and  the  waving  hands  ; 
And  blot  the  stars  from    Heaven's  cloudy 

steep  ; 

From  out  the  mystic  glass  let  fall  the  sands 
And  since  I  cannot  die,  then  let  me  sleep. 


204 


I    AM    THY    KNIGHT. 

I  AM  thy  knight,  and  thou  hast  sent  me  forth 
To  battle  with  the  demon  of  despair, 
To  conquer  self,  and  from  its  ashes  bring 
The  phoenix  of  my  boyhood's  fervid  dreams  ; 
To  live  the  long,  long  years  and  make  my  life 
Like  to  the  sower  as  he  passes  by 
Scattering  the  grain  on  rock  and  fertile  field 
To  reap  or  lose  as  fate  shall  will  it  so. 

No  favor  hast  thou  sent,  as  those  of  old 
Wore  lovingly  and  closely  on  their  hearts 
When  they  went  forth  to  far-off  Palestine, 
But  simply  for  thy  word  that  it  is  best. 
And  for  the  trust  and  message  sent  by  thee, 
Do  I  go  on  to  conquer  in  the  fight 
Of  man  the  brute  against  the  man  divine. 

Count  me  no  idle  dreamer  —  most  of  all 
I  pray  you  not  on  some  high  pedestal 
Entrench  my  nature ;   I  am  but  a  man 
Who  loves  and  hates,  is  merry  and  is  sad, 


Has  known  of  gladness  and  has  tasted  woe, 
And  holds  no  higher  honor  to  himself 
Than  truest  love  to  all  things  true  and  good 
And  pity  infinite  for  suffering. 

Here  is  my  hand  —  and  to  the  world  my  scorn  ; 

For  as  I  journey  onward  in  my  quest 

I  shall  not  falter,  even  where  I  fail ; 

But  having  from  the  strength  of  thy  rare  soul 

Caught  some  reflection  of  a  light  divine, 

Full-armed  am  I,  and  resolute  as  death 

To  face  the  utmost  rigor  of  my  fate  ; 

To  cleave  to  hope,  to  hope  for  happiness 

To  be  my  better  self  as  best  I  can. 

And  so  through  all  the  lapses  of  gray  time, 

To  be  a  man  because  I  am  thy  knight. 


206 


RETROSPECTION. 

THE  woman  tempted  me,  and  I  did  fall, 
From  the  resolve  to  keep  my  heart  intact  — 
Sheer  from  the  heights  that  cautious  pride  had 

reared, 

Like  Lucifer,  from  heaven  down  to  hell, 
From  independence  to  captivity. 

The  woman  tempted  me  ;  by  not  so  much 
Of  face  and  figure,  as  by  complement* 
Of  all  that  was  most  sweet  and  womanly ; 
A  spirit  tuned  to  high  and  pure  intent, 
Clear  eyes  which  seemed  when  looking  into 

mine, 
Gray    depths    that    harbored    her    unsullied 

thought ; 

By  not  so  much  of  figure  or  of  face  — 
For  who    that   loves    shall    say,    "  Why  thus 

and  so 

My  true  love  is,  more  fair  than  others  are," 
Drawing  her  picture  as  a  painter  does, 
With  all  the  cunning  patience  of  his  art  ? 
207 


Why  this  were  simply  puerile  and  vain 

And  insincere,  for  he  whose  heart  is  smote 

By  this  great  agony  can  only  say, 

"  I  love  her  "  ;  meaning  she  is  beautiful, 

Noble  and  true,  the  sum  of  all  desire 

Which    makes   of    man   a   being    more    than 

man, 
Better  or  worse  as  he  himself  decrees. 


Somewhere  in  men's  best  efforts  will  be  found 
The  saving  grace  of  woman's  influence. 
And  love,  that  in  these  garish  later  days 
Is  jeered  at  by  the  clay-souled  common  minds, 
Still  shines  as  bright,  still  vivifies  the  earth, 
As  Hesperus  in  far-off  summer  skies 
Lights  darkened  paths  for  the  blind  sons  of 
men. 


The  woman  tempted  me;  by  not  a  word 

Nor  yet  a  look,  but  as  a  flower  might 

By  purity,  unspotted  of  the  world  ; 

For  who  that  wanders  down  the  thorny  ways 

Past   sterile   wastes   and   on   through   barren 

roads, 

But  pauses  where  a  lone  field-blossom  lifts 
Its  dewy  fragrant  petals  to  the  sun. 
208 


I  cannot  sigh  for  what  is  past  and  gone, 
As  clouds  that  flee  across  the  flying  moon, 
For  [  am  one  who  recks  not  of  regret, 
Save  as  a  spur  to  urge  to  nobler  deeds  ; 
And  life  is  brief,  I  find  the  sunshine  best 
Youth  and  outdoors,  not  cloisters  and  old  age, 
And  key  my  heart-strings  to  that  concert  pitch 
Which  vibrates  to  the  happier  side  of  things. 

They  say  that  life  is  solemn  ;  make  it  so  ; 
Go  banish  laughter  from  the  swaying  crowds, 
Bring  sackcloth,  ashes,  gather  dead-sea  fruit 
And  flagellate  the  soul  with  doubtfulness  ; 
But  will  you  check  the  music  of  the  streams 
Hush  the  glad  burst  of  blackbird  melody 
In  maple  branches  swinging  with  the  winds  ; 
Wilt  blot  the  sunlight,  hold  the  nimble  grass 
Down  to  the  sod,  or  darken  autumn  leaves  ? 

The  woman  tempted  me  ;  an  old  refrain 
But  most  persistent,  what  am  I  to  do, 
Fly,  fight  or  die,  or  yield  as  cowards  will  ? 
My  hands  are  tied,  my  very  lips  are  sealed. 
I  am  as  one  who  sees  a  thorny  rose 
And  in  his  fancy  wears  it  on  his  breast 
Yet  in  reality  sees  fancy  fade. 
This  is  the  seed  of  cynicism's  root, 
14  209 


When  that  a  man  can  say,  u  I  love,"  and  does 

not  dare 

For  honor's  sake  to  break  the  silences 
That  fill  the  lapses  of  companionship. 

u  I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man," 
So  runs  the  precept,  lighting  as  a  lamp 
The  stormy  seas  that  I  must  needs  traverse  ; 
I  dare  do  much,  so  honor  stands  untouched 
Cut  any  Gordian  knot,  aye  I  even  death's  — 
Rather  than  be  a  burden  to  my  kind  — 
But  like  an  Arab  who  has  broken  bread 
And  taken  salt  from  out  a  stranger's  palm 
And  ever  afterwards  remains  his  friend, 
So  I.  who  take  her  friendship  and  her  trust 
With  every  welcoming  pressure  of  her  hand 
Dare  not  do  more  than  may  become  a  man. 

Religion,  creeds,  the  dogmas  or  the  church, 
Prayer,  customs,  proverbs,  rules  and  what  you 

will 

And  after  all  I  hold  it  to  be  truth, 
That  man  himself  regenerates  himself 
Building  anew  the  spirit's  crumbling  cell. 

The  woman  tempted  me  ;  but  I  have  risen 
Level  with  my  temptation,  stronger  far 


Than  in  that  time  before  temptation  came  ; 
For  what  we  meet  and  overcome  does  make 
Our  strength   tenfold,  our  caution  none  the 
less. 

The  woman  tempted  me  ;   I  bless  the  day 

The  hour  and  moment,  proving  as  they  do 

That  I  at  last  have  something  in  myself 

As  worthy  of  her  confidence  in  me. 

And  for  the  dream  that  lessened,  for  the  hope 

That  was  a  dream,  I  happiest  am  in  this 

That  time  works  many  marvels,  even  I 

Once  grasped  a  fact  that  first  was  but  a  dream. 


211 


AT   THE    PLAY. 

ALL  the  stage  was  alight, 

And  the  play  — 

Just  a  comedy  slight 

With  a  touch  of  strained  pathos  dragged  in  by 

the  way ; 

I  remember  that  night 
And  the  day  that  came  after,  a  fair  April  day. 

Yet  how  crude  it  all  seemed, 
Commonplace  — 
As  the  dark  villain  schemed 
With  a  forced  leer  of  hate  in  his  imbecile  face, 
And  you  sat  there  and  dreamed 
Like  a  picture  framed   softly  in  ribbon   and 
lace. 

I  had  hate  in  my  heart 

Then  for  you, 

Though  I  held  it  apart 

And  leaned  over  and  smiled  as   most  lovers 

would  do, 

But  I  knew  that  no  art 
Could  teach  such  a  woman  as  you  to  be  true. 

212 


What  of  that,  let  it  go  ; 
And  again 

When  I  think  of  it  so, 
I  am  cold  and  more  cynical  even  than  when 
You  whispered  to  know, 
If  I  thought  that  most  women  were  truer  than 
men  ? 

And  I  say  to  you  yet 

T  was  a  play, 

When  we  smilingly  met, 

And  exchanged  all  our  letters  the  following 

day, 

And  we  had  no  regret 
That  the  next  gusts  of  March  did  not  whistle 

away. 

No  regret ;  yet  despite 

All  disdain  ; 

In  the  same  play  to-night 

Where  the  dark  villain  schemes  and  the  fond 

lovers  feign, 

Something  blurs  on  my  sight, 
And  the  wraith  that  I  see  is  the  ghost  of  love 

slain. 


213 


IF. 


IF,  when  her  eyes  meet  mine  my  eyes  are  sealed 
By  the  last  twilight  that  shall  ever  fall, 
With  life  and  hope  forever  past  recall 
And   all   their   longings   by   death's    love-kiss 

healed, 

Perhaps  forgiveness,  like  some  lily  fair, 
May  bloom  for  him  who   sleeps   so   soundly 

there. 

If,  under  shadows  that  could  never  cease, 
I  was  at  rest,  forevermore  at  rest  — 
A  knot  of  wildwood  flowers  on  my  breast, 
If  placed  there  by  her  hand  might  send  me 

peace  — 

A  violet  cluster,  taking  from  the  skies 
The  summer  depths  of  her  sad,  violet  eyes. 

If  in  the  silence  of  that  last  long  sleep, 
She  could  but  read  the  mystery  and  see, 
That  she  alone  was  all  life  held  for  me, 
Mayhap   across    her   heart    one    pang    would 
sweep, 

214 


To  think  that  even  death  could  make  no  less 
The  soul's  dim  sense  of  utter  loneliness. 

And  if  at  last  we  wandering  shall  meet 
In  heavenly  fields  of  asphodel  above, 
Will  the  remembrance  of  our  buried  love 
Make  the  white  paths  of  paradise  less  sweet  — 
If  in  the  byways  of  that  far-off  land 
Our  journeys  cross,  by  some  lone  stream,  and 
we  together  stand  ? 


2I5 


HER   ROOM. 

"  THIS  was  her  room,"  my  smiling  hostess  said 

"  And  pleasant  dreams  ;  "  I  thank  you  for  the 
wish.  • 

The  clock  strikes  twelve,  the  curtains  rustle 
slow 

And  candles  on  the  mantel  stare  at  me. 

While  light  and  shade,  and  something  else  un 
seen 

Blend  eerily  with  midnight  and  myself. 

Her  room?     My  room!    for  did  I  not  once 

share 
These   niches   and   these   draperies   with   her 

thoughts  ? 

And  doubtless  she  will  recollect  me  still ; 
Times  change,  days  die,  the  seasons  come  and 

go 

And  many  a  web  of  winding  circumstance 
Will    round    her   far-off    pathway    weave    its 

thread, 

216 


But  she  remembers  me,  for  true  it  is 
A  woman  may  forget  all  other  things, 
But  not  the  memory  of  a  man  she  loved. 

The  genius  of  her  nature  still  abides 

In  these  four  walls,  for  I  will  say  of  her 

She  had  the  natural,  artistic  touch, 

That  makes  the  most  of  what  is  beautiful  ; 

Here  is  a  wing  of  some  sea-faring  bird 

Which  curves  in  outward  line  of  seeming  flight. 

Here  is  a  rose  —  rough-sketched,  but  bearing 

yet 

The  out-door  feeling  in  its  leaf  and  thorn, 
While  higher  up,  an  Indian  arrow  hangs 
An  emblem  of  the  wild  barbarian's  art. 

This  is  her  room  —  and  in  this  oaken  chair 
Her  arms  have  rested  many  a  sombre  night 
When  the  red  moon  sank  slowly  down  the 

west 

And  Jupiter  in  stellar  radiance 
Burned  like  a  beacon  in  the  darkling  skies  ; 
Here  is  a  mirror  whose  quaint  carven  frame 
Must  oft  have  held  her  figure  and  her  face  ; 
Oh  I  happy  glass  to  thus  enfold  her  there 
The  dainty  image  of  her  dainty  self, 
As  summer  pools  will  hold  a  lily's  form 
In  shadow. 

217 


Upon  this  pillow  she  has  pressed  her  cheek 
The   pale,  pale  cheek,  and  closed  her  deep- 
fringed  eyes, 
Turned  the  smooth  keys  of  Sleep's  Pandora 

box 

And  drifted  up  to  dim  unconsciousness  ; 
By   this   wide   window   she   has  marked  the 

dawn1 

Gild  ruddily  yon  church's  dagger-spire, 
And  where  that  grass-plat  nestles  by  the  gate 
Watched  morning-glories  open  to  the  sun. 


What  is  this  woman  to  ine  ?     Let  me  think  ; 

Not  what  she  was,  not  as  an  idol  now, 

(The  feet  of  clay  and  forehead  as  of  brass,) 

But  is  she  part  of  me,  a  permanence, 

A  lasting  recollection  to  be  faced  — 

A  joy  or  woe,  what  says  the  sibyl,  Thought? 

And  now  to  lend  my  musing  wider  scope 
And  partly  for  the  sake  of  argument, 
I  '11  boast  that  I  am  not  a  common  man  ; 
I  grant  my  circle  of  environment 
With  its  dull  round  of  crude  necessities, 
But  after  all,  my  spirit  looks  aloft, 
I  am  a  dreamer  —  none  the  less  a  man. 
218 


It  came  not  in  an  ordinary  sense, 
But  gathered  all  my  nature  in  its  grasp 
To  give  her  strength,  and  truth  and  tender 
ness  ; 
And   what   she    might    have    been   was   dear 

to  me 

A  thousandfold,  for  men  who,  like  myself, 
Are  blessed  or  cursed  with  natures  like  to  fire, 
Know  in  a  way  to  duller  souls  denied 
The  keen  extremes  of  happiness  and  pain. 

I  1d  have  a  woman  true  ;  and  for  the  rest 
I  'd  have  her  true  whatever  else  she  was, 
Not  aspen-like  to  waver  in  the  wind, 
But  like  to  her  who  in  the  olden  days 
Said,  wondering,  "  What  is  it  to  be  false?" 
And   I   would  have   her   strong   in   that    rare 

strength 

Which  rather  than  it  fails  unflinching  dares 
The   cord,    the    rack,    the    dungeon   and    the 
stake. 

I  'd  have  the  man  the  same  —  there  is  no  love 
Which  from  the  man  a  lesser  meed  demands 
Than  what  is  asked  of  woman  ;  each  to  each 
For  their  great  trust  should  be  responsible. 
219 


Where  is  the  woman  that  my  fancy  saw  1 
This  perfect  one,  did  ever  she  exist  ? 
So  much  she  had  of  what  was  credible 
And  if  sincere,  then  womanly  indeed  ; 
Why !  see,  she  failed  in  her  own  estimate 
And  failing  thus,  how  failed  she  then  in  mine  ! 

This  is  her  room  ;  the  old  illusion  fades 

("  And  pleasant  dreams,"  my  hostess'   voice 

again,) 

Yes,  pleasant  dreams,  I  \e  worked  the  prob 
lem  out, 

She  had  her  goodly  qualities  I  know, 
But  lacked  the  major  chords  of  womanhood 
And  seemed  all  minor,  being  now  to  me 
An  artificial  woman  I  once  loved. 


220 


THE    GRAY-EYED    LADY. 

SHE  stood  beside  a  lichened  stone 
The  gray-eyed  lady,  all  alone, 
And  over  her  the  starlight  shone. 

And  all  her  wealth  of  wondrous  hair 
Was  black  against  the  winding  stair, 
Yea  !  she  was  something  more  than  fair. 

Upon  the  mystery  of  her  dress 
Above  a  shadow-curve's  caress 
Lay  the  wan  moonshine,  motionless. 

Around  her  wrists  curled  shining  strands 
Of  silver,  while  like  welded  bands, 
Linked  the  lithe  ivory  of  her  hands. 

Her  face  was  white  as  are  the  dead, 
The  riddle  at  the  last  was  read, 
And  what  she  said  I  leave  unsaid. 

And  when  she  vanished  from  my  sight 
Came  wraiths  of  days  in  phantom  flight, 
These  faded,  and  the  rest  was  night. 
221 


TANTALUS. 

FAME  ?    Why  a  fig  for  fame  —  he  had  marked 

its  flight,  a  will-o-the-wisp, 
When  the  sweet  spring  grass  rose  fresh  and 

strong,  and  when  autumn  leaves  grew  crisp. 

Gold  ?    'T  was  the  basest  of  all  base  metals 

yet ;  better  iron  and  steel ; 
And  he  flung  his  sovereigns  into  the  dust  and 

ground  them  under  heel. 

Love  ?      And   by   love's   deep   craving   alone 

(God  pity  him)  he  was  curst, 
As  a  lion  that  digs  in  the  desert,  and  digging, 

dies  of  thirst. 

For  luminous — starlike  —  framed   on  high,  a 

star  that  could  never  fall, 
Was  the  face  of  the  woman  he    loved  —  and 

who  loved  him,  that  was  all. 
222 


ONE    WOMAN. 

SHE  is  a  woman  —  subtle  as  her  sex, 

And  most  elusive  when  she  seems  fast  bound 

In  reverie  ;   I  cannot  make  her  out, 

For  as  a  flower,  opening  to  its  close 

So  is  she  changeless  in  unending  change. 

Her  voice  says  "Nay!"  her   non-committal 

eyes 

Veil  with  long  lashes  depths  most  eloquent. 
And  but  for  one  rebellious  dimple's  crease 
A  smiling  sign  that  softens  else-stern  lips  — 
I  would  despair  where  highest  I  had  hoped 
And  rail  at  women  for  untruthfulness. 

What  is  it  all  ?  a  lifted  arching  lid 
A  look  distrait,  an  intonation  clear, 
A  tapping  of  a  little  restless  foot 
Then  silence  and  attention  ;  and  again 
A  firm,  sure  hand-clasp  that  makes  full  amends 
For  what  had  brought  me  heart-ache  just  be 
fore. 

223 


I  love  her  and  I  love  her  not,  for  love 
Such  as  I  keep  I  cannot  frame  in  words 
Or  at  the  most  but  brokenly,  and  so 
I  love  her  more  in  thought  and  less  in  speech, 
And  love  her  not  since  time  is  still  too  brief 
To  compass  what  my  heart-strings  sing  of  her  ; 
And  what  she  says  I  say  to  her  is  true, 
And  what  she  does  I  do  maintain  is  just 
For  might  makes  right  and  1  her  captive  stand, 
And  stubborn  clank  my  fine-spun  iron  chains. 

She  came  into  my  life  as  comes  at  sea 
To  some  lone  shipwrecked  mariner,  intent, 
A  far  gray  sail  that  puts  aside  the  mist 
Spanning  the  distance  with  a  bow  of  hope. 

And  so,  and  so —  I  love  her  ;  grant  it  trite 
The  love  of  man  for  woman  ;  grant  it  false 
In  instances  unnumbered  —  and  at  last 
I  read  no  peace  beyond  the  stars  on  high 
I  find  no  promise  in  the  sunlight's  kiss, 
And  know  no  recompense  that  seems  to  me 
As  just  to  wait  —  her  hand  held  close  in  mine  — 
Beside  the  one,  one  woman  that  I  love. 


224 


IT'S   A    LONG  LANE  THAT   HAS 
NO   TURNING. 

THE  highway  crosses  the  distant  hills 

Low  to  the  west  where  the  sun  lies  burning, 

Sweetheart  — 

Though  the  hour  is  late, 

And  many  miles  before  me  wait, 

It 's  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning. 

I  study  the  mile-stones  while  I  pass, 

As  a  boy  at  books  his  lessons  learning, 

Sweetheart  — 

The  end  is  far  away, 

And  yet  an  echo  seems  to  say, 

It's  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning. 

Your  face  flashed  up  as  the  sun  went  down, 
The  sweet,  pale  lips,  and  the  sad  eyes  yearn 
ing- 
Sweetheart  — 
I  pray  thee  shed  no  tears, 
For  we  shall  meet  beyond  the  years, 
It 's  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning. 
15  2-'S 


IN  THE  SXJNSET  LANDS. 


THE   PRAIRIE. 

WHERE   the  wild  flowers,  wind-shaken,  their 

heads  are  tossing 
In  this  lone  western  land,  on  prairies  rolling 

and  vast 
Here,  where  the  whispers  of  solitude  ever  are 

crossing 

Here,  if  nowhere  else,  there  is  peace  at  last. 
Rest  for  the  heart  and  brain,   for  the   soul, 

world-weary, 

In  the  strength  and  might  and  the  beauty  of 
trackless  prairie. 

In  this  far  land  is  no  taint  of  civilization. 
No  stain  of  smoke  —  the  heavens  above  are 

clear  as  glass  — 
With   never  a   sign  or  faintest  trace  of  any 

nation. 

Naught  but  a  waving,  boundless  world  of 
grass 

229 


Where  over  the  shadows  the  sunshine  shifts 

and  lingers, 

And  the  weeds  bend  low  at  the  touch  of  the 
wind's  light  fingers. 

No  voice  save  the  voice  of  Nature,  yet  all- 
pervading  ; 
Rich  in  its  own  strange  music,  the  sweetest 

ever  sung 
With  earth  and  sky  and  the  taintless  breeze 

the  echoes  shading, 
And  all  the  billowy  prairie  overhung 
With  a  nameless  sense  of  loneliness  and  wild- 
ness, 

That  thrills  with  its  life  and  color  the  summer 
mildness. 

Miles  upon  miles  of  grassy  swells,  sown  thick 

with  flowers 

In  yellow  and  purple  lines,  in  clusters  flam 
ing  red. 
Tinted  with  Nature's  brushes  and  watered  by 

the  showers 

On  the  slopes,  and  over  the  hollows  spread  ; 
On  every  hill  their  gorgeous  banners  showing, 
And  far  across  the  prairie  in  vivid  colors 
glowing. 

230 


Here  indeed  is  the  keen,  strong  wine  of  free 
dom  tasted  ; 
A  draught  once  drank,  it  is  never  forgotten 

again, 
Where  never  a  man's  heart  wears  away,  by 

sorrow  wasted, 
For  Nature's  moods  are  kinder  than  those 

of  men ; 
This  is  the  land  whose  healing  touch  is  sure 

and  painless  — 

This  is  the  land  that  God  smiles  on  —  the 
prairie,  pure  and  stainless. 


231 


AN    INDIAN    BOW. 

THIS  curved,  smooth  length  was  erst  a  harp 
From  whence  the  twanging  echoes  leaped, 
Its  feathered  shafts  with  crooked  grooves 
In  many  a  foeman's  blood  were  steeped, 
The  buffalo-sinew  stretched  across 
Sang  sharply  once  in  savage  hands, 
Resounding  in  the  slothful  wind 
That  drifts  across  the  prairie-lands. 

But  now,  like  some  cowed  rattlesnake 
All  venomless,  with  wrenched-out  fangs, 
Upon  the  wall  of  this  my  home 
The  wild  Comanche's  weapon  hangs. 
The  buffalo-sinew  stretched  across 
Strikes  discords  in  unskilful  hands, 
Unlike  the  old-time  resonance 
That  buzzed  across  the  prairie-lands. 


232 


A  TARAHUMARI    RUNNER. 

THICK,  rawhide  sandals  on  his  feet, 

A  bronze-red  figure  full  of  grace, 
Inured  alike  to  cold  and  heat, 

He  stands,  the  flower  of  his  race  : 
Broad  in  the  chest,  with  lower  limb 

Symmetrical  and  hard  and  slim, 
With  breech-clout  steeped  in  sombre  dyes 

Folded  securely  round  his  thighs  ; 
And  loosely  on  his  massive  breast 

A  necklace  rude  of  shells  is  hung  — 
By  some  cliff-dwelling  maiden  strung 

And  by  his  coarse,  black  hair  caressed, 
His  hair,  from  whence  his  dark  eyes  glow: 

The  runner,  Candelario. 

Far  in  a  savage  vastness  wild 

He  makes  his  home  the  cliffs  among, 

Where  chaos  lies  in  fragments  piled 

And  chides  the  thunder's  muttering  tongue, 
233 


Where  the  red  lightning's  fingers  reach 

All  sudden  through  the  storm-cloud's  breach  ; 
And  where  the  hurricane's  fell  wrath 

Through  mountain  timber  sweeps  its  path  ; 
And  here  upon  the  deer's  faint  trail 

He  follows  on  from  day  to  day 
From  ruddy  dawn  to  evening  gray 

O'er  cliff  and  chasm,  sand  and  shale 
Till  with  his  knife  he  slays  the  roe : 

The  runner,  Candelario. 

A  hundred  miles  a  day  to  him 

Is  nothing  —  as  with  dog-trot  pace 
He  takes  departure  stanch  and  grim, 

Nor  stops  nor  falters  in  the  race  — 
A  primal  athlete  he,  who  goes 

Where  the  swift  torrent  downward  flows ; 
Across  the  steeps  in  level  flight, 

Adown  the  glens  and  up  the  height  — 
The  weary  wolf  will  seek  repose, 

And  deer  shall  in  their  covert  bed 
Lie  down  and  rest,  while  overhead 

The  crow  his  flagging  wings  must  close, 
Yet  onward  speeds  yon  speck  below : 

The  runner,  Candelario. 


234 


LITTLE    BIG    HORN. 

BESIDE  the  lone  river, 
That  idly  lay  dreaming, 
Flashed  sudden  the  gleaming 
Of  sabre  and  gun 
In  the  light  of  the  sun 
As  over  the  hillside  the  soldiers  came  streaming. 

One  peal  of  the  bugle 
In  stillness  unbroken 
That  sounded  a  token 
Of  soul-stirring  strife, 
Savage  war  to  the  knife, 
Then   silence   that   seemed  like  defiance   un 
spoken. 

But  out  of  an  ambush 
Came  warriors  riding, 
Swift  ponies  bestriding, 
Shook  rattles  and  shells, 
With  a  discord  of  yells, 

That   fired   the   hearts   of  their  comrades  in 
hiding. 

235 


Then  fierce  on  the  wigwams 
The  soldiers  descended, 
And  madly  were  blended, 
The  red  man  and  white, 
In  a  hand-to-hand  fight, 
With  the  Indian  village  assailed  and  defended. 

And  there  through  the  passage 
Of  battle-torn  spaces, 
From  dark  lurking-places, 
With  blood-curdling  cry 
And  their  knives  held  on  high, 
Rushed    Amazon   women   with   wild,  painted 
faces. 

Then  swung  the  keen  sabres 
And  flashed  the  sure  rifles 
Their  message  that  stifles 
The  shout  in  red  throats, 
While  the  reckless  blue-coats 
Laughed  on  mid  the  fray  as  men  laugh  over 
trifles. 

Grim  cavalry  troopers 
Unshorn  and  unshaven, 
And  never  a  craven 
In  ambuscade  caught, 
How  like  demons  they  fought 
Round  the  knoll  on  the  prairie  that  marked 
their  last  haven. 
236 


But  the  Sioux  circled  nearer 
The  shrill  war-whoop  crying, 
And  death-hail  was  flying, 
Yet  still  they  fought  on 
Till  the  last  shot  was  gone. 
And  all  that  remained  were  the  dead  and  the 
dying. 

A  song  for  their  death,  and 
No  black  plumes  of  sorrow, 
This  recompense  borrow, 
Like  heroes  they  died 
Man  to  man  —  side  by  side,    ( 
We  lost  them  to-day,  we  shall  meet  them  to 
morrow. 

And  on  the  lone  river, 
Has  faded  the  seeming 
Of  bright  armor  gleaming, 
But  there  by  the  shore 
With  the  ghosts  of  No-more 
The  shades  of  the  dead  through  the  ages  lie 
dreaming. 


237 


ARIZONA. 

A  THOUSAND  long-horned  cattle  grazed 

Upon  a  boundless  field, 
And,  with  a  shading  hand  upraised 

His  bearded  face  to  shield, 
A  swarthy  herder's  watchful  eyes 
Saw  distant  shadows  fall  and  rise. 

A  clash  of  hoofs  stampeded  there 

Beat  fast  a  loud  tattoo, 
And  whizzing  keenly  through  the  air 

A  feathered  arrow  flew  I  — 
A  gray  mustang  with  streaming  mane 
Dashed  riderless  across  the  plain. 


238 


THE  SUN-DANCE    OF   THE   SIOUX. 

THE  shroud  of  a  dim,  white  cloud 

Lifted  a  vapory  spire, 

And  aloft  in  the  sky  the  sun 

Burned  like  a  world  on  fire ; 

And  the  warriors  one  by  one 

There  in  the  wilderness  lone, 

Chanted  in  jarring  tone, 

And  muttered  the  medicine-man 

As  the  dance  of  the  sun  began. 

And  high  in  their  centre  stood 
A  sapling  of  iron-wood, 
And  there  the  dancers  massed 
And  backward  and  sideways  passed, 
While  through  each  muscular  breast 
A  strip  of  hide  was  strung 
That  taut  from  the  upright  pole 
Was  stretched, .as  back  they  hung; 
And  grim  in  the  cruel  test 
They  danced  on  the  sterile  knoll, 
While  chanted  the  medicine-man 
As  the  blood-drops  downward  ran. 
239 


And  back  and  forth  they  went 
In  the  throes  of  that  awful  dance, 
Now  straight  as  a  seasoned  lance 
And  now  in  a  crescent  bent ; 
While  a  rhythmic  time  they  beat 
With  the  stamp  of  their  moccasined  feet, 
And  out  from  the  pole  they  swung 
At  the  ends  of  the  raw-hide  reins, 
While  ruddy  and  spreading  stains 
From  the  gaping  wounds  were  wrung. 

Fierce  were  their  sloe-black  eyes 

And  never  a  brave  would  faint, 

Resonant  rose  their  cries 

Demons  in  garish  paint ; 

And  earthward  the  sunlight  poured 

As  the  flash  of  a  mighty  sword, 

While  round  in  a  circle  still 

Upheld  by  the  stoic  will, 

In  the  grasp  of  the  raw-hide  strips 

With  foam  on  their  parted  lips, 

And  their  breasts  pierced  through  and  through 

Leaped  the  warriors  of  the  Sioux. 

And  the  sun  sank,  and  was  gone  ; 
And  the  stars  came  out  above 
While  night  drew  softly  on 
The  darkness,  like  a  glove  ; 
240 


And  still  their  shrill  cries  rang 
Harsh  and  more  savage  grown, 
As  upward  and  out  they  sprang 
Weird  forms  in  the  midnight  shown 
Till  the  opaline  moon  had  paled 
And  the  light  of  the  stars  had  failed. 


Then  rose  the  sun  again 

On  that  circle  of  tameless  men 

On  wigwam  and  on  chief. 

On  the  grass  and  shimmering  leaf, 

On  the  cluster  of  watchful  squaws 

And  the  dogs  with  wolfish  jaws, 

While  dull  in  a  ceaseless  drone 

The  voice  of  the  medicine-man, 

In  its  guttural  undertone 

Of  strident  echo  ran. 


And  there  at  the  turn  of  noon 

With  deep,  despairing  yell, 

Headlong  in  sudden  swoon 

Three  of  the  warriors  fell  ; 

But  the  rest  danced  on  and  on 

And  tense  in  their  breasts  were  drawn 

The  stiffening  strips  of  hide, 

As  they  circled  side  by  side. 

16  241 


And  there  as  the  slow  day  waned 
All  weak  from  the  dire  test, 
With  the  veins  in  each  brawny  chest 
Of  their  glowing  globules  drained, 
They  sank  on  the  beaten  ground, 
In  their  gory  harness  bound, 
In  the  glare  of  the  dying  sun 
Each  brave  with  his  bosom  cleft, 
Staggering  one  by  one 
Till  one  alone  was  left. 

And  he,  on  the  trampled  sod 
One  moment  in  silence  stood, 
Then  broke  from  the  torturing  wood 
And  like  to  a  demi-god 
He  towered  above  the  rest 
With  his  torn  and  bleeding  breast, 
And  downward  plunged  the  sun 
And  the  dance  of  the  Sioux  was  done. 


242 


A    PRAIRIE    MINUET. 

SLOW  bobbing,  bobbing  to  and  fro 
With  awkward  steps  across  the  grass, 
In  solemn  lines  they  come  and  go 
And  like  to  dancers  change  and  pass. 

Their  ceiling  is  the  deep  blue  sky, 
The  ball-room  floor,  the  level  plains  ; 
Their  music,  winds  that  hurry  by 
This  minuet  of  sand-hill  cranes. 


243 


OVERLAND. 

A  TREELESS  stretch  of  grassy  plains, 
Blue-bordered  by  the  summer  sky  ; 
Where  past  our  swaying,  creaking  stage, 
The  buffaloes  go  thundering  by, 
And  antelope  in  scattered  bands 
Feed  in  the  breezy  prairie-lands. 

Far  down  the  west  a  speck  appears, 
That  falls  and  rises,  on  and  on, 
An  instant  to  the  vision  clear, 
A  moment  more,  and  it  is  gone  — 
And  then  it  dashes  into  sight, 
Swift  as  an  eagle's  downward  flight. 

A  ring  of  hoofs,  a  flying  steed, 

A  shout  —  a  face  —  a  waving  hand  — 

A  flake  of  foam  upon  the  grass 

That  melts  —  and  then  alone  we  stand. 

As  now  a  speck  against  the  gray, 

The  pony-rider  fades  away. 

244 


NEZ    PERCYS. 

THROUGH  the  defile  lay  the  tents  to  the  north 
ward 

Past  the  gaunt  spurs  of  the  beetling  Sierras, 
Plain  was  the  trail,  but  aloft  in  the  mountains 
Crouched  the  Nez  Perces,  and  watched  o'er 

the  valley ; 
Scanning   the    pathway  with   eyes    that   were 

eager 

Shifting  their  rifles  and  waiting  in  patience, 
Knowing  that  still  to  the  south  lay  their  quarry 
Twenty    grim    troopers    cut    off   from    their 
comrades. 

Faded  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  dawning 
Lengthened  the  days,  but  the  Indians  waited 
Chewing  dried  flesh   of  the  deer   to  sustain 

them, 

Reaching  with  hollowing  palm  for  the  water 
Trickling   from    snow-covered    summits     un 
trodden  ; 

245 


Smiling  but  seldom,  and  then  with  a  wrinkle 
Of  leathery  cheeks   as   they  thought    of  the 

troopers ; 
Baleful    black    eyes  that   were   lighted   with 

vengeance 
Hair   like    the    raven's   wing   sweeping   their 

shoulders 
Cats  of  the  mountain,  crouched  low  in  their 

hiding, 
Patient  as  death,  and  as  stern  and  relentjess. 

Miles   to    the   south   was    the   camp    of    the 

twenty, 
Men  of  wild   lives,    but   the   hearts   in   their 

bosoms 
When  but  the  breath  of  the  battle  came  o'er 

them 

Rose  up  to  meet  it  like  steel  to  a  magnet ; 
Knowing  no  fear  and  familiar  with  danger 
Skilled  in  the  use  of  the  sabre  and  rifle, 
Sitting  like  centaurs  their  Indian  ponies, 
Soldiers,  as  brown  as  the  grasses  of  Autumn. 

Gray    rose     the     moon    o'er    the    towering 

mountains 

Tipping  each  peak  with  a  frost-work  of  silver, 
246 


Gray  were  the  ashes  where  camp-fires  smoul 
dered 

Sparkless  as  dust  in  the  middle  of  summer, 
Gray  as  a  ghost  was  the  stream  that  ran  by 

them 
There,    as    they   mounted    their    ponies    and 

started, 

Gray  and  serene  were  the  stars  that  hung  over 
Jewels  of  night  undissolved  in  the  darkness. 

Threading  their  way  to  the  pass  through  the 

uplands 

Certain  of  peril  and  ready  to  meet  it, 
Silent  as  spectres  they  rode  in  the  moonlight, 
Moonlight    and     starlight    a-shine    on    their 

weapons  — 

Till  at  the  turn  of  a  bend  in  the  valley 
Where  the  broad  gate  of  the  hills  had  been 

opened, 
Right  at  the  mouth  of  the  canyon  they  halted. 

Halted  to  tighten  the  girths  on  the  ponies 
Halted   to  wipe    the    night-dews  from    their 

rifles, 
Stayed  for  one  hand-clasp,  one  word  from  their 

leader, 

Then  light  of  heart  they  sprang  into  the  saddle, 
247 


Spurred  for  the  pass  one  by  one,  all  defiant 
Reckless  and  heedless  of  God,  man  or  devil. 

Each  after  each  o'er  the  flint  and  the  granite 
Clattered  the  hoofs  of  the  galloping  ponies, 
Nothing  beside  stirred  the  stillness  around 

them 

Till  near  the  centre,  all  sudden  and  awful 
There  at  its  narrowest,  hell  broke  the  silence ; 
One   sheet   of  flame  like  the   lightning,    zig 
zagging, 
Leaped  from  the  cliffs,  and  the  sharp-snarling 

echoes 

Blended  with  yells  that  the  chosen  of  Hades 
Might  well  have  envied,  could  they  have  but 

listened  ; 
Then  came   the    answering   shouts   from    the 

stragglers 

Posted  along  the  huge  rocks  of  the  canyon, 
High  rose  the  shrill  whoops  of  triumph  and 

slaughter 

Clear  shone  the  moon  with    a  cloudless   re 
splendence, 

Ghastly  and  clear  on  that  fated  inferno, 
While  from  the  jaws  of  the  gorge  disappearing 
Scattering  sparks  from  his  iron-shod  pony, 
Passed  like  a  wraith  into  midnight  translated 
Silently  still,  only  one  of  the  twenty. 
248 


Red  rose  the  dawn  on  the  jagged  Sierras 
Sweet  sang  the  birds,  and  the  morning  grass 

glistened 
When  from   the   south,   to  the  tents  at  the 

northward 

Rode  the  lone  leader,  the  last  of  the  twenty ; 
Limp    hung    his    arm,    and    his    stirrup   was 

shivered, 

Blood  on  his  face  and  his  forehead  and  fingers, 
Slow  lagged  his  pony,  and  still  like  a  soldier 
Upright  and  firmly  he  sat  in  the  saddle, 
Weakened  from  wounds  so  that  speech  almost 

failed  him. 

Swift  rushed  his  comrades  to  seize  him  and 

aid  him, 
While  from  their  lips  came  the  cry  "  And  the 

others  ?" 

Then  with  a  gesture  of  infinite  meaning 
He  of  the  lion-heart,  telling  the  story, 
Turned  his  thumb  down,  with  the  brown  hand 

extended, 
(Strange,  was  it  not,   that  death-sign   of  the 

Roman  — ) 
Smiled   in  their  faces   and  whispered  "  Nez 

PerceV' 


249 


A    PRAIRIE   PICTURE. 

A  LIGHT  shines  out  in  the  dark  northwest 

Like  a  star  in  a  cloudy  frame  ; 
It  wavers,  and  then  from  the  prairie's  breast 

Springs  up  a  sea  of  flame, 
That  full  of  a  fierce  desire, 
Pours  down  in  a  tide  of  fire. 

With  strength  that  scorns  all  bond  or  shackle 
Free  as  the  wind  it  rolls  and  leaps, 

And  the  tall  dry  grasses  roar  and  crackle 
As  over  the  fire  sweeps  ; 

And  the  gloomy,  far-off  sky 

Lights  up  as  it  gallops  by. 

Into  the  air  it  darts  and  flashes 
Sending  upward  a  blood-red  glow, 

And  driving  ahead  the  white-hot  ashes 
As  thick  as  drifting  snow  ; 

And  its  fiery,  scorching  breath 

Is  as  pitiless  as  death. 

250 


Far  in  its  wake  lie  embers  gleaming, 
Sparkling  up  as  the  night-winds  blow, 

And  miles  away  is  a  red  flood  streaming 
With  naught  to  mark  its  flow, 

Save  a  scarlet  fringe  of  light 

On  the  curtains  of  the  night. 


251 


RED    CLOUD. 

IN  the  land  of  the  Sioux  the  first  grass  was  up- 
springing, 
And  new  on  the  tepees  the  fresh  skins  were 

lain  ; 
The  bleak  winter  months  had  gone  overland, 

bringing 
Far  down  in  their  wake,  the  last  dashings  of 

rain ; 

The  beaver  peeped  out  of  the  valley  morasses 
And  slow  on  the  timber  his  gnawings  begun  ; 
The   tethered-out   horses   were   cropping  the 

grasses 

And  the  Indian  boys  wandered  wild  in  the 
sun. 

Wandered  wild  in  the  sun  with  their  bows  and 

full  quivers 

Over  prairie  lands  wide  in  the  far-away  west, 
By  the  hills  and  the  woods  and  the  reed-girdled 

rivers 

Where  never  the  foot  of  a  white  man  had 
pressed  ; 

252 


And  down  by  the  village  the  squaws  gathered 

fuel 

Where  little  papooses  in  nakedness  ran, 
While  prone  on  his  blanket,  with  face  cold  and 

cruel, 
Lay  silently  smoking,  —  the  medicine-man. 


Ten  braves  were   away  to   the   land   of  ihe 

stranger 

Whose  homes  lay  afar  in  America's  Alps, 
Away  on  a  foray  of  desperate  danger 

For  plunder  and  glory,  for  horses  and  scalps, 
Lithe,  sinewy  warriors,  with  peril  acquainted 
Thin-lipped  and  slow-spoken  —  long-haired 

—  heavy-browed, 

All  eager  for  battle  —  beweaponed  and  painted, 
And  the  chief  of  the  band  was  the  sombre 
"  Red  Cloud." 


Red  Cloud  !    His  high  cheek  bones  set  off  his 

grim  forehead 
And  the  light  in  his  eyes  like  an  eagle's  was 

fierce, 

And  merciless,  too,  as  the  crotalus  horrid 
When  he  coils  with  his  poison-fangs  ready  to 
pierce  ; 

253 


A  tower  of  strength  and  a  deer  for  swift  run 
ning 

With  limbs  as  of  iron  and  sinuous  grace, 
No  wolf  was  more  tireless,  no  fox  matched  his 

cunning 

Red  Cloud,  the  great  chief  of  the  mighty 
Sioux  race. 


To  the  land  of  the  Blackfeet  once  more  they 

had  ridden 

Their  ancient,  inveterate,  bloodthirsty  foes  ; 
At  night  in  the  saddle,  by  day  they  were  hidden 
Nor  stirred  on  their  quest  till  the  silver  moon 

rose  ; 
So  noiseless  they  moved  while  they  sped  o'er 

the  prairie 
That  they  seemed  but  as   shadows   where 

shadow  shapes  meet, 

For  the  listening  silence  no  echo  could  carry 
From   the   soft-muffled   hoofs   of    the   war- 
ponies  fleet. 


Ten  braves  and  the  chief  gone  for  booty  and 

pillage 

So  mused  through  his  smoking  the  medicine 
man, 

254 


The  pick  of  the  tribe  and  the  pride  of  the  vil 
lage 

And  choicest  of  all  of  the  warrior  clan  ; 
Twenty  moons  now  had  waned,  yet  no  sign 

had  been  given 
The  grasses  grew  longer,  the  trees  were  in 

leaf, 

Twenty  times  through  the  heavens  the  moon- 
man  had  driven 

Where  then  were  the  warriors,  where  was 
the  chief  ? 

And  as  he  sat  scowling,  foreboding  disaster, 
With  wrinkled-up   forehead,   the    medicine 
man, 
Came  the  quick  clash  of  hoofs,  beating  faster 

and  faster 
As  the  roll   of  a   drum  —  rat-a-plan,   rat-a- 

plan  — 
And  there  in  their  midst  as  his  brave  courser 

staggered 
With  foam-whitened  nostrils  and  fell  like  a 

stone, 
With  the  battle  light  still  in  his  eyes  deep  and 

haggard 

Red   Cloud,  the  Sioux  chief,  stood  among 
them  alone. 

255 


And   then,   as  the  women  began  their   shrill 

wailing 
For  the  souls  of  the  braves  to  the  Great 

Spirit  fled, 

The  keen,  savage  protest,  and  all  unavailing 
That   marks   the   rude   grief  for   barbarian 

dead, 
Then  down  from  his  shoulder  ten  Blackfeet 

scalps  throwing 

He  said  with  a  look  as  of  Lucifer  proud  : 
"Ten  braves   I    took   with  me  when  spring 

grass  was  growing, 

Ten  chiefs  have  come  back  by  the  side  of  Red 
Cloud." 


256 


GERONIMO. 

BESIDE  that  tent  and  under  guard 
In  majesty  alone  he  stands 
As  some  chained  eagle,  broken-winged 
With  eyes  that  gleam  like  smouldering  brands  ; 
A  savage-face,  streaked  o'er  with  paint, 
And  coal-black  hair  in  unkempt  mane, 
Thin,  cruel  lips,  set  rigidly  — 
A  red  Apache  Tamerlane. 

As  restless  as  the  desert  winds, 
Yet  here  he  stands  like  carven  stone, 
His  raven  locks  by  breezes  moved 
And  backward  o'er  his  shoulders  blown  ; 
Silent,  yet  watchful  as  he  waits 
Robed  in  his  strange,  barbaric  guise, 
While  here  and  there  go  searchingly 
The  cat-like  wanderings  of  his  eyes. 

The  eagle  feather  on  his  head 
Is  dull  with  many  a  bloody  stain, 
17  257 


While  darkly  on  his  lowering  brow 
Forever  rests  the  mark  of  Cain  ; 
Have  you  but  seen  a  tiger  caged 
And  sullen  through  his  barriers  glare  ? 
Mark  well  his  human  prototype, 
The  fierce  Apache  fettered  there. 


258 


INDIAN    BURIAL. 

A  RUDE,  high  scaffold  builded  here 
Where  the  wild  prairie  rolls  away  — 
Stands  desolate  in  twilight  gray 
Surmounted  by  a  single  spear  ; 
This  is  the  Blackfoot  chieftain's  bier, 
Thus  rests  at  length  his  pulseless  clay, 
Watched  by  the  shaded  eyes  of  day 
And  skulking  wolves  that  linger  near. 

And  creakingly  the  rough  poles  shake 
When  the  winds  drift  by  grasses  tall, 
And  sifting  shreds  of  moonlight  fall 
On  the  carved  death-mask,  flake  by  flake  ; 
Dawns  come  and  go,  and  sunsets  break 
Wave  after  wave  o'er  night's  dark  pall, 
Nor  heeds  nor  recks  he  of  it  all 
Nay,  who  will  speak  that  he  may  wake  t 

His  trusty  weapons  round  him  lain, 
He  sleeps  upon  this  wind-swept  bed 

259 


In  blankets  wrapped  from  foot  to  head 
And  under  him  his  best  horse  slain  — 
And  dreams,  until  the  cry  amain 
Through  the  long  silence  far  hath  sped, 
And  then  he  wakes  who  now  lies  dead, 
Else  the  Great  Spirit  calls  in  vain. 


260 


A    MOUNTAIN    TRAIL   BY    MOON 
LIGHT. 

THE  moon-flood  in  the  solitude 
Streamed  through  the  timber  gray  and  cold, 
And  soft  the  night-wind's  interlude 
Came  past  the  brook,  which  sinuous  rolled 
Down  the  old  mountain  like  a  snake  ; 
And  all  night  long,  with  steadfast  glow, 
The  stars  in  heaven  lay  awake 
To  watch  the  listless  earth  below. 


And  stealthily  mid  slumbrous  air, 
O'er  sharp  pine  needles  strewn  with  cones, 
The  dusk  went  tip-toe,  here  and  there 
And  whispered  in  mysterious  tones, 
While  sweeping  through  the  vistas  round 
A  soft-voiced  zephyr  seemed  to  bring, 
Fine  chords  of  crisp,  uncanny  sound 
That  almost  made  the  silence  sing. 
261 


Each  tree  was  tranced  in  perfect  calm 
Dumb  worshippers  at  Druid  shrines, 
While  nature's  censer  scattered  balm, 
Fresh  incense  from  the  living  pines  ; 
Each  peak  a  statue  stood,  at  rest, 
Transfigured  by  the  ghostly  moon, 
The  wild-bird  lay  within  his  nest 
And  all  the  world  was  in  a  swoon. 

Above  a  mass  of  jagged  rock 

That  stamped  a  shadow  on  the  sky, 

A  hemlock,  smote  by  lightning  shock, 

Dead,  blanched  and  grim,  rose  far  on  high  ; 

And  suddenly  across  the  spell 

Where  midnight  in  this  vastness  dreamed, 

Like  some  dread  echo  out  of  hell 

Deep  in  the  woods  a  panther  screamed. 


262 


THE   NAVAJO. 

STRAIGHT  as  a  shaft  of  mountain  ash 

A  copper-hued  American  ; 

And  round  his  loins  was  bound  a  sash 

The  raiment  of  barbaric  man  ; 

And  bright  across  his  sunken  cheeks 

Were  painted  two  broad  scarlet  streaks, 

That  heightened  with  their  garish  dyes 

The  midnight  blackness  of  his  eyes. 

The  buckskin  moccasins  he  wore 
With  gaudy  beads  were  thick  inlaid, 
And  in  his  hand  a  wand  he  bore 
Most  curiously  carved  and  made, 
And  on  his  wrist  two  bells  he  kept 
That  tinkled  as  he  lightly  stepped, 
The  talisman  by  which  his  spells 
Lured  serpents  from  their  rocky  cells. 

Wide  stretched  the  waste  of  desert  lands 
Beside  him  there  ;  a  waveless  shore, 
263 


Of  burnished  and  of  treeless  sands 
Like  to  some  buried  ocean's  floor. 
Where  all  year  long  the  ruddy  sun 
A  woof  and  warp  of  flame-thread  spun, 
And  where  the  cactus  reared  its  spike 
And  each  parched  season  seemed  alike. 

And  while  the  bells  did  music  make, 
Before  him,  and  with  neck  upraised 
And  cold  eyes  fixed,  a  rattlesnake, 
Turned  in  its  coil  as  if  half  dazed  ; 
And  moved  the  charmer  to  and  fro 
While  undulated,  smooth  and  slow, 
As  fast  he  paced  with  arms  outspread  — 
The  dull  ophidian's  flattened  head. 

Gray-mottled  was  the  reptile's  skin 
Beneath  the  sun's  rays  glistening ; 
And  curved  and  crinkled  out  and  in 
The  dusky  coil's  compacted  ring; 
And  fast  and  faster  swept  the  chime 
Of  tinkling  bells  in  rhythmic  time, 
The  while  the  snake's  keen  vision  dire 
Lost  something  of  its  steely  ire. 

And  then  the  savage  stooped  to  take 
Up  from  the  twisting  spiral  fold, 
264 


The  sinuous  body  of  the  snake, 

When  instantly  its  eyes  so  cold 

Flashed  lightning  ;  in  that  flash  it  sprang 

Upon  him  ;  from  its  hollow  fang 

Swift  through  his  veins  the  venom  leaped 

And  all  his  soul  in  death  was  steeped. 


265 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SUNSET   LAND. 

IN  the  far-off  hills  of  the  sunset  land  ; 

In  the  land  where  the  long  grass  bends  and 

quivers, 

Where  the  ghosts  of  night  and  morning  stand 
By  the  gleams  and   dreams  of  the  lonely 

rivers, 
There  the  brown  sedge  waving,  stoops  and 

shivers 
At  the  water's  edge  in  the  sunset  land. 


Through  the  trackless  paths  of  the  sunset  land  ; 
Where  the  silence  broods  under  far  skies 

rounded 

And  the  days  slip  by  like  grains  of  sand, 
There  the  song  unsung  and  the  chord  un 
sounded 

Seem  like  a  part  of  the  desert,  bounded 
By  the  wild  gray  wastes  of  the  sunset  land. 
266 


On  the  snow-clad  peaks  of  the  sunset  land  ; 
As  they  rise  in  the  clouds  so  near  to  heaven 

In  shadowy  vastness,  stern  and  grand  ; 
There  gaunt  old  pines  by  the  lightning  riven, 
Moan  in  the  winds  through  their  branches 
driven, 

On  the  crags  and  cliffs  of  the  sunset  land. 

Mid  the  rolling  plains  of  the  sunset  land, 
Where  the  echoes  drift  on  the  tufted  heather 

In  the  wake  of  breezes  sweet  and  bland  ; 
There  the  shadows  go  in  a  troop  together 
Across  the  haze  of  the  fair  June  weather 

In  the  grassy  dells  of  the  sunset  land. 

By  the  wand'ring  streams  of  the  sunset  land, 
Where  the  ripples  rise   mid  the  tall   reeds 

bending 

And  float  away  to  an  unknown  strand  ; 
There  the  shade  and  the  sunlight  slow  de 
scending 

Fall  where  the  voice  of  the  waters  blending 
Sings  of  the  sunset  land. 


267 


41481 


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